


Gallows Humor

by Redgeandlilly



Series: Anita Blake: Night Heiress [2]
Category: Anita Blake: Vampire Hunter - Laurell K. Hamilton
Genre: Alternate History, Alternate Universe - Gender Changes, Badass normal, Butchering French language and culture, F/F, F/M, Fix-it fic, Gen, Gratuitous use of the words flavor and spill, Light Angst, Mommy Issues, Spitefic, all the homo in the world, bisexual Anita, gratuitous and possibly inaccurate French, raging bicuriosity
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-09-14
Packaged: 2021-03-05 03:54:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 30
Words: 73,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25238059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Redgeandlilly/pseuds/Redgeandlilly
Summary: When wealthy investment banker, Harold Gaynor, arranges for a private meeting with she and her boss in his stately home, Anita suspects sinister ulterior motives. The sorts of things one doesn't discuss, even behind a closed office door. Her suspicions are confirmed not long after meeting with their enigmatic client.One million. That's the value Harold Gaynor places on human life.Their client needs a corpse raised, the location to a treasure locked in the mind of a five-hundred-year-old corpse. The older the zombie the bigger the death needed to raise it. Human sacrifice. And Gaynor already has someone in mind. A legal executioner and monster hunter she might be, but Anita's not willing to be a killer for hire.But someone is. Not long after Anita turns the job down, a terrifying series of murders rip through Saint Louis, and all signs point to an undead creature the likes of which Anita has never encountered. She'll have to lean on her hard-earned skill as a hunter, and the help of a certain vampire celebrity to solve the case and put this monster in the ground—for good.
Relationships: Anita Blake/ Jeanette, Anita Blake/Jean-Claude (Anita Blake)
Series: Anita Blake: Night Heiress [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1823521
Comments: 94
Kudos: 45





	1. Chapter 1

"You know people stopped doing house calls for a reason," I drawled as we approached a pristine lawn, framed by a crescent of willow trees. 

They'd have been very pretty if there'd been even the hint of a breeze to lend to the graceful look of them. A small, man-made lake reflected the perfect blue of the cloudless summer sky. Harold Gaynor's landscaper deserved a raise for keeping the place as verdant as it was in the midst of the boiling August heat.

I was dreading the moment we'd have to step out of the air-conditioned interior of Bert's newly acquired Benz. Though Bert couldn't come right out and say it without risking a lawsuit, it had been heartily implied that I should wear slacks to the office for the foreseeable future. A month ago I'd suffered second-degree burns at the hands of a vampire intent on torturing me to death. As a result, most of my left leg was a patchwork of reds, pinks, and browns. I hadn't been much of a skirt sort of girl before the incident, but it had been nice to have the option when the summer months rolled around. 

Bert wouldn't fire me if I wore one. He couldn't even suggest a change of clothing or the addition of stockings to cover the scars. I was one of his best animators, and probably the only person in the United States that could do the sort of job that Harold Gaynor wanted done. 

Still, the implication was there. I wore the damn slacks because I didn't like the second glances I got walking down the street. Yes, if they didn't like it, they didn't have to look. It was their problem. But when I was at work, I didn't fight Bert on it. There was too much on my plate to quibble over the dress code. Besides, this trip was business. Harold Gaynor was a very wealthy man and if the contract got stymied by something as trivial as my scars, I'd be in deep shit with Bert. I'd all but lost my consultancy job with Saint Louis PD and I didn't want to risk losing my main source of income as well. Bert didn't have to fire me to bleed me dry financially. Just limit me to the really old corpses, the ones that rolled around only every two to three months.

Animating was as old as time, but the sale of it was recent. Trust Bert to figure out a way to capitalize on what had once been just an embarrassing curse, religious experience, or something straight out of a freak show. Sometimes all three at the same time. My options were slim if I wanted to find employment like it elsewhere. The only other firms were in California or New Orleans, and I wasn't willing to move that far away from my family. I may not have liked most of them, but it'd break Grandma Blake's heart if I moved all the way to the west coast. 

"It's a lovely place," Bert said conversationally as we crunched to a stop on the white gravel drive. He was completely ignoring me. A promising start to the day.

"Yeah," I said. One word, terse and uninterested. 

Bert frowned at me. "You're angry."

"I don't see why we couldn't have done this in the office." 

Where it was cool and I didn't have to limp around the place. 

"Mr. Gaynor isn't comfortable meeting in public. He said the raising he wants done is time-sensitive and very personal." 

Call me paranoid, but I didn't like the sound of that one bit. It was down in Animators Inc's corporate charter that our sessions worked along the same lines as HIPAA. Unless the client posed a threat to others or themselves, what they decided to disclose to the animators they hired was their business. I'd only been forced to report two clients in the time I'd worked there. The first had been a woman who wanted to raise the uncle who'd molested her in order to light his corpse on fire and watch him scream (which I sympathized with but couldn't legally condone.) The other had been a man who'd lied to me about the purpose of the zombie raising and had smuggled the corpse across state lines in order to sell it to a necrophiliac. 

Still, it was standard practice to at least give the gist of what you were looking for. It was a long, grueling process to research a person's suitability for raising. Any number of things could cause the corpse to come back wrong. In that case, you ended up with flesh-eating zombies. Sometimes worse, depending on what happened to them in life. The fee for the research was almost as steep as the price of the actual raising. If Bert was skipping that initial step, this was definitely sketchy. 

"How much is he offering, Bert?" I asked, hand on the door handle, delaying the inevitable moment I'd have to step out into the August heat.

July had been incredibly hot and humid, like the devil himself had been breathing down our necks. August was the reverse, with a month-long dry spell. Harold Gaynor's sprinkler system was probably spewing out enough water to fill his pond twice over to keep it looking as green as it was. I was in an incredibly uncharitable mood already and thought briefly about turning some of the protesters that plagued Animators Inc. on this guy. I knew at least a few of them were eco-terrorists as well. 

Bert's lips quirked in a would-be innocent smile. "Does it matter?" 

"Yes. If you want me to walk into that house and talk to a man about raising a zombie I know next to nothing about, I need to know at least what it's taken him to buy you." 

If it had been anyone else, they'd probably have been offended at the assertion they could be bought. Bert just looked a little smug. If he'd been born in an earlier decade, I imagined he'd have been the sort to live in the pocket of the mob. He looked the part of an enforcer. He was 6'3" with broad shoulders, close-cropped white hair, and a frame with enough muscle to make the average man think twice about starting something. He was going slightly to seed now, but it didn't mean that he'd be a pushover. 

Bert was a devotee of the almighty dollar and would do almost anything to acquire more wealth. 

"Gaynor is offering one million." 

"Fuck." 

The word popped out of my mouth without my permission. I'd been expecting several times my usual rate, plus the research, and private consultancy fee. Depending on the age of the zombie and the reason for raising it, that could have put the price tag at twenty grand, easy. But a million? Who threw that money away on one corpse, no matter how personal the matter? 

Now I _knew_ something was off.

Bert chuckled knowingly, mistaking the curse as one of grudging appreciation. "And that's the starting offer. I'm betting if we haggle, I could get it up to a million and a half. He used to work on Wall Street as an investment banker before...well, you'll see. He's loaded." 

And I had to wonder exactly what a former investment banker wanted with a zombie. I doubted Bert had been able to hear the particulars over the sound of the blood rushing straight to his groin. A million. Fuck. Gaynor could ask for damn near anything with that price tag and Bert would give it to him. 

Bert pushed open his door and stepped outside. It let blistering summer heat reach into the car and grip my chest in one scalding hand. I shoved out of the car as well, wincing as the motion pulled at the taut skin on my left side. The vampire who'd scarred my leg had started at my ribs. I'd begun wearing sleeveless cotton blouses, simply because they breathed better than silk. Pretty and decadent as it might feel to wear on sheets or in the arms of a lover, it was less than pleasant on a burn. 

The heel of one boot crunched on the gravel as I straightened to my full and incredibly average height. Bert frowned down at them, probably willing them to transform them into something more flattering, like pumps or stilettos. These were the fashionable kind that barely rose above the ankle and hid easily beneath the slacks. They weren't the more comfortable and infinitely more useful combat boots, so I didn't see where Bert had any right to bitch. 

I reached into the interior of the car and retrieved the jacket that matched the slacks, throwing it on over the sleeveless shirt. I'd feel like shit the entire time I was forced to wear it, but it beat the hell out of giving up the gun. 

"Is that really necessary?" Bert asked, pursing his lips in distaste. 

"The last time you convinced me to do work for clients outside of the office I was almost killed. Do you remember that Bert?"

He had the decency to flinch at the reminder. I wasn't sure if it was genuine empathy over the injury and near-death-experience or if he still shuddered to think how much revenue he'd lose without me. Because I was a giving soul, I put it down to both. 

Near-death experiences weren't anything new to me. I'd been a registered Vampire Executioner with the state of Missouri for three years now. Once the official numbers for August rolled in, I'd be at a hundred and forty kills. Most of them in morgues all across the state when the state or local authorities weren't equipped or didn't have the stomach to execute their vampire felons. It wasn't any different than someone flipping the switch on the electric chair or pushing the buttons to administer a lethal injection. Just a job. 

Have stake, will travel. 

I'd earned myself the nickname "The Executioner" from the vampires. I had the highest kill count in my home state and was close to having the title for the whole of the U.S. if I didn't already. But those were only the official kills. I knew people with scarier resumes than mine. I knew the man the vampires called "Death" personally. He'd deigned to train me all those years ago. Maybe that was why I was as good as I was. Maybe it was inborn talent. But the student wasn't about to surpass the master any time soon. At the end of the day, I didn't have the sort of stomach it took to take money to kill innocents, the way he did. And there _were_ innocents, even among vampires.

But the District Serial Murders were different. Bert had agreed to a meeting with Willie McCoy, an ex-friend of mine, and the emissary for the Master of Saint Louis, taking cash in exchange for the dubious pleasure of my company. Willie had blackmailed me, using proof of magical malfeasance to make me cooperate with the then-master's demands. The case had almost physically disabled me and had the potential to drive me to drink. 

"Keep it hidden," he said finally. 

My smile was tight and unamused. "That's what concealed carry means, Bert. It's a little obnoxious to be flashing it everywhere I go."

"Don't scare him. This is big. Who knows? We could get backing and set up offices all over the U.S." 

I didn't think there was enough animating talent in the U.S. to staff them, personally, but that didn't preclude bringing in people from other countries. In Russia, Ukraine, the Middle East, and India, animators weren't just regarded as freakish. They could be jailed or killed. Applying for a work visa and getting the hell out of their country might be their only ticket to surviving long-term. Bert probably didn't think of it along those lines, but it wasn't a bad idea overall. 

I shrugged. "It won't come out unless he threatens us first." 

Bert looked askance at me, not believing a word. Maybe I should have been wounded. This time I'd actually meant it.

He eventually decided to let it go and we started up the drive toward the house. It was built in the English Tudor style, which I knew courtesy of the many seasons of Grand Designs Grandma Blake had binge-watched while I stayed over. She'd have liked Gaynor's home. Stately without being overdone. The white stone that made up most of the front reflected the sun back in our eyes as we approached. I'd left my shades in the car, at Bert's insistence. Eye-contact was crucial for friendly contractor-contractee interaction, or so he told me. Bert was like that. Genial, superficially charming, with a perfectly white smile that was designed to part the gullible from their money. 

I tended to operate on two settings. Brusque and bitch. The line was thin at the best of times, and difficult to dance when I was hurting, stressed, or pissed off. Today I was all three. That boded well. 

Bert must have sensed my irritation, because he changed the subject, trying to lift my mood. 

"I hear the bill you had a hand in drafting has finally made it to the House of Representatives. If it's approved by the Senate and signed by the president, it'll be a landmark moment. You'll be a little part of history." 

If this was his best attempt to cheer me, he really had a lot to learn about what made me tick. 

"It should have been done a long time ago," I muttered. "Zombies as field labor? On oil rigs or down in mines? Even if you take out the gross moral turpitude, it's a disaster waiting to happen. Even the best animators can't keep them going forever. They don't have enough of a mind left to do the job for long. And it is wrong. They were people once, Bert. The dead deserve rest." 

"Most of them were unidentified or intentionally willed their bodies to medical science or labor camps. You understand why there's pushback, don't you? Having them work in pesticide-laced fields and other dangerous jobs saves human lives." 

"They had human lives once. The animators should be finding their families, not putting them to work. The law preventing the interrogation of a zombie worker is sick. John Doe and Jane Doe zombies deserve their justice too." 

"Maybe it'll go through." 

"Yeah, maybe." Bert didn't truly care about the zombies, just the publicity this law had the potential to bring to his firm. 

We finally reached the front steps and Bert knocked sharply on the oak-paneled front door. It swung open in one smooth motion, revealing a broad-shouldered man wearing an orange polo shirt. It strained taut across a barrel chest. He'd probably have biceps to match the rippling muscle the shirt failed to hide but it was difficult to tell with the dark sports jacket he wore over the polo. When he shifted I got a good look at the shoulder holster beneath the jacket. That wasn't what worried me though. In the good ol' U.S. of A. anyone could arm themselves, and security (which this man almost certainly was) would find it necessary. 

No, it was the Spetsnaz Ballistic Knife strapped to his waist that gave me pause. Ballistic knives with a spring-operated blade were illegal not only in the State of Missouri but nationwide, I was fairly sure. Maybe Gaynor didn't know his flunkie had it, but I was doubting it. And I was fairly sure it wasn't an accident he'd flashed me both the gun and the knife. This guy wanted me to know he was armed. 

I was betting Gaynor wanted me to know it as well. The nebulous feelings of unease solidified and lodged like a pit in my gut. This was going to end badly. We should turn and walk away. 

But Bert was already stepping past the bodyguard, who'd angled himself to let us pass, making his introductions as he did so. I stared at his back in mute frustration as he sidled down the hall. Damn Bert and his ambition. Damn it all to hell. 

He craned his neck to look at me. He was still grinning, the greedy, short-sighted bastard. 

"You coming Blake?" 

The lemming was determined to take a dive off the cliff. The least I could do was try to catch him before he killed himself. With I sigh, I stepped in after him, wincing when the door clicked shut moments later. The guard fell into step behind us. I had a tingling feeling between my shoulder blades like he'd stick the knife in at any second. 

"Yeah," I grumbled. "I'm coming."


	2. Chapter 2

The bodyguard wearing the knife introduced himself as Tommy. Just Tommy, not Thomas, but call me Tommy, cause we're all friends here right? Forced smile and awkward shrug just after. Nope none of that. Maybe he thought the informal name would endear Gaynor to us. Can't be anything nefarious going on when a man is so casual with his bodyguards. 

Uh-huh. I'd just bet Gaynor was as cuddly as a teddy bear. One with a big smile and a grenade sewn into the lining.

Tommy led us down a hall lined with shelves and end tables all of them bearing baubles that would cost more than the median income of a Missouri household. Oil paintings in silver and gold frames hung on the wall. I caught Bert eyeing a few of them, sizing up their value. Bert was close to being a millionaire himself, but much of what he earned had to go back into the business. Hiring competent animators wasn't cheap. If he could expand all over the U.S. he could easily become as wealthy as Gaynor, who was closer to being a billionaire. 

I wondered what it must be like to be able to afford to throw away a million dollars on....well... _anything._ Especially something that he couldn't ultimately keep. The longest animated zombie outside laboratory conditions had been able to move about for almost a year. It had been an animator in life and a flesh-eater in death. It had only been animate for so long because it had been raised in a very remote part of Brazil and had hidden in the rainforest when not attacking humans. By the time it had been hunted down and immolated by Brazilian authorities it had barely been moving and had no mental faculties whatsoever.

I was good, but I wasn't God. I'd never tested how long I could keep the dead animate, but projections based on my power level suggested somewhere between nine months to a year, and that was only if I was giving that zombie my sole attention. It wouldn't look lifelike for more than two to three months after that. And according to Bert, the corpse Gaynor wanted raised was old, which would halve that estimate. The older the zombie, the more power required to raise it. 

Tommy stopped in front of a pair of heavy, hand-carved mahogany doors and rapped his knuckles sharply against the wood. It opened to reveal another bodyguard, this one was a lean African-American man also armed and not trying to hide it. The shoulder holster stood out starkly against the blue polo shirt he'd tucked into a pair of black slacks. No knife this time, though. 

If he was an inch taller than Bert, it was only because of the dreadlocks he'd pulled into a tail at the back of his neck. His dark eyes scrutinized us both, paying more attention to big, bulky Bert than little ol' me. Big mistake, to focus on size. A Browning Hi-power and the training to use it could be one hell of an equalizer in a fight. After a brief examination, he nodded curtly at Tommy and stepped aside, finally revealing the interior of the room. 

Harold Gaynor's library looked like a bibliophile's paradise. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined every wall, hard-backed books in every size and shape imaginable, arranged in no particular color schema that I could discern. A lot of them had gold lettering on the spines. None of them looked well-worn. The Classic Italian furniture looked new and, while no dust had been allowed to settle on the surfaces here, I suspected the library wasn't used much. It had been arranged like a showroom and left largely alone. 

"Ah, thank you Tommy," a genial voice called from the center of the room. "Thank you for showing Mr. Vaughn and Ms. Blake in. Sit." 

Tommy didn't sit, opting instead to lean against one of the bookshelves with his arms crossed, glowering at us from his position near the door. 

Harold Gaynor was seated in the middle of the room. He was a plump man, in his mid-forties or so. I had a rare animator's ability to guess, within a ballpark of a few years, the ages of the people I met. I didn't usually mention it. Rude to point out the woman claiming thirty was a lot closer to fifty. Gaynor was seated in a wheelchair, a warm flannel blanket draped across his lap and covering most of his legs. 

So that was what Bert had meant outside. Gaynor was disabled. 

He smiled indulgently at his bodyguards as they they took up positions opposite us, ready for a fight.

"You'll for have to forgive them. They're terribly overprotective. Bruno, Tommy, please relax. We're all friends here." 

They didn't relax. Go figure. 

A woman entered from a door I hadn't seen, almost seeming to slide out of the bookshelves like a ghost. It startled me enough that my hand flinched toward my gun. That drew Tommy and Bruno's interest. Great, now they knew I was armed. 

Jumpy, Jumpy, Blake. You're better than this.

I really was. But something about this situation was jingling just about every alarm bell I had. 

The woman was tall, leggy, and blonde. Huge cornflower-blue eyes fringed with lashes I suspected were fake. She was incredibly thin and I idly wondered if she'd had a rib or two removed to achieve the body hinted at by the rose-colored silk dress. She had her small feet stuffed into spike heels. She was beautiful and a well-delivered punch to my insecurities. My step-sister Andria was two years younger than me and yet had managed to command most of the male attention of my high school class. Senior boys flocking to the sophomore girl. She'd gone to both my proms with two of my secret high-school crushes. 

Yeah, I really ought to have been over it by now. I was twenty-four, on my own, and thriving professionally. She was a year late to graduate with a bachelors in veterinary medicine. She had a long slog of classes to go. Neither of us were dating, which distressed Judith, who craved grandchildren more than air to breathe. She was leaning hard on Andria, because I'd stated emphatically that I didn't want kids. I thought I had the better end of the deal. 

It didn't stop the ache of that long-ago hurt. Feelings were feelings. 

Her eyes sparkled as she took us in, a small smile on her face. Then she glanced down at Gaynor, hands moving fluidly. It took me a second to realize that she was signing. Cecily must be deaf.

"This is my fiancee, Cecily," Gaynor said. "She says hello and that she hopes you're well. It's a scorcher out there." 

"That it is, Cecily," Bert said, clapping his hands once, then rubbing them together cartoon-villain style. "Now, I'm sure you're a busy man, Mr. Gaynor. Why don't you tell us the specifics of the zombie you need raised." 

Gaynor's smile grew, showing teeth. "I like a man that's direct. Alright, I'll get straight to it. I've been turned away almost every animator I've asked, but I hear your firm is the best. The zombie I'm aiming to have raised is named Ziying. He's a very distant relative of mine, born in South China in the 1500s. I'm hoping that he can give me insight to the location of a very valuable set of family heirlooms lost during the death throes of the Han Dynasty. It is of great personal importance to me and some of my associates." 

Dread tied my guts into knots. The bodyguards had tensed by the door, anticipating some sort of reaction. I had a bad feeling Gaynor knew what he was asking for. 

Bert was going to hate me for this. 

"That's quite a number," Bert said, clearing his throat after a moment of dead silence. "It's older than any corpse we've ever been asked to raise." 

"Because it's almost impossible to do legally. Only one person in history has been able to do it, and she doesn't raise for any firm." I fixed Gaynor with a look. "You know what you're asking, right?" 

Gaynor's smile didn't waver. "I'm aware, Miss Blake. I have a White Goat already prepared."

Bert clapped his hands again. "That's great! We can start-" 

"We can't," I said, speaking over him. 

Bert turned on me, scowling. "Why not? It's just a goat." 

"A white goat is a black market slang term for human sacrifices acquired from human trafficking rings. To raise an old corpse, you need a large death. After that many years the only thing that will do is a human being." 

Bert paled and darted a glance at Gaynor, the truth starting to penetrate his thick skull. The older man was still smiling, unperturbed by my refusal. 

"One million, Ms. Blake," Gaynor reminded me pleasantly. "I can raise it to two. Perhaps three?" 

Bert actually spasmed, reacting to the amount like he'd just been hit with a cattle prod. A look of genuine agony passed over his face as his conscience got into a fistfight with his edacious nature. 

I glanced at Cecily, wondering how much of the conversation she was picking up on. Was she in on this? Or God forbid, was she the intended sacrifice? Gaynor couldn't possibly do this, could he? 

"Maybe you could slaughter more animals?" Bert suggested weakly. "Cows? One or two of them could do that right?" 

"No," I said, sharp and curt. We should have been out the door the second human sacrifice was mentioned. I would never work for this man. "Theoretically it could be done with something with sapience, like whales, dolphins, chimpanzees and the like. But then you run into conservation laws and a smackdown from the SPCA." 

"Four million," Gaynor said calmly. "Would that convince you to raise the zombie?"

Bert performed another jerky spasm. Poor Bert. This must be the purest form of hell for him. 

"No," he said finally. "I'm afraid not, Mr. Gaynor. I can't condone human sacrifice." 

"The animator of which you spoke, who is she? Perhaps I should give her a call instead."

There was something sinister couched behind the words that made me shudder all over again. I didn't think he'd take no for an answer. He could probably find the information on his own, but I hoped to forestall that until she'd at least been made aware of what might be gunning for her. 

"I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose that," Bert lied, straightening his lapels with a forced smile. "And I really think it's time to be going." 

"I don't see why this is morally objectionable to you, Ms. Blake. You've murdered humans before."

I paused on my way to the door. Fear tingled at the base of my spine. He was more right than he knew. I'd killed a handful of humans who'd gatecrashed my wedding and mowed down all the guests while their vampire buddies chowed down. But Gaynor couldn't know that. The Master of the City who'd blackmailed me with pictures of the events wouldn't have bandied it about. It had been her insurance policy to get a case of serial vampire killings solved. 

"It was self-defense, Mr. Gaynor. I don't kill indiscriminately." 

Gaynor's expression said very clearly that he didn't believe me. I made for the door. 

Tommy and Bruno were flanking it at once, hands inching for their weapons. I drew the Browning in a move too quick for them to track and had it pointed at Tommy's center of mass before either of them could blink. I'd been given a pair of vampire marks from a very attractive and very manipulative female vampire during the course of the District Serial case. It made me faster and stronger than most humans. I tried not to lean on it, lest it give her more power over me. 

But if it was between that and death...

Tommy and Bruno froze, staring at me dumbfounded and a little frightened. Gee it was nice to be respected for once. 

"Move," I said quietly. "Or I'll _make_ you move."

I didn't turn to look at Gaynor, but he must have called them off with a look or gesture because both men relaxed. 

"I think that's enough for today, boys," Gaynor said cheerfully. "No need for anyone to get hurt." 

"Right," I said, not holstering my weapon until both men had backed away and assumed a position near Cecily and Gaynor. 

"I'll be seeing you!" Gaynor called after us as we positively sprinted into the hall. 

I just fucking bet he would. Goddamn it, why did these things always happen to me? 

Bert choked out a harsh breath when we finally approached his Benz. I thought he might have been holding it since we'd left the library. 

"Jesus," he muttered. "I thought they might-" 

"Shh," I hissed. 

There was a familiar black car parked behind Bert's. It was a Dodge Charger with municipal license plates. If you knew what you were looking for, you could spy a light bar on the dash and behind the grill. A police detective's car. More specifically, it was Detective Zerbrowski's car. 

Zerbrowski was thirteen years my senior and his dark, curly hair was going a little gray at the temples. He had hazel eyes framed behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He leaning against the side of the car, trying to appear as casual as you please. He wasn't. I'd worked too many cases with Zerbrowski not to read tension in the set of his shoulders. His fists were clenched, white-knuckled with the effort it took not to express anything as we approached. 

"Anita," he said, voice perfectly level. 

Again, very wrong. Zerbrowski was the king of one-liners, the class clown, and wholly irreverent whenever he could get away with it. He was staring at me like...like I was a large, potentially dangerous dog. I'd never seen that look on his face before.

"Zerbrowski," I said, mirroring his tone. "What are you doing here?" 

"There's a case. We need you to come down to the station." 

"You could have just called. You know I'm on duty. I'll come in and consult tomorrow if Dolph needs me." 

"It's not a consult." 

Those four words were a veritable goldmine of information. It wasn't a consult, but they still needed me at the station. Which meant I wasn't an investigator. I was a suspect. Fuck. 

"I see." 

Zerbrowski's hands inched toward his cuffs. "Will you ride along with me, Anita?" 

His eyes added on the unspoken end to the question. _Or do I need to put you in cuffs?_

"Sure. Think you can find your way home alone, Bert?" 

The insubordination finally allowed Bert to shake off some of the shock of what we'd just been through. 

"Wiseass. Get going." 

I glanced at Zerbrowski, wondering what fresh hell I was about to be subjected to. 

"Yes, sir."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While yes, evil, I tried to change up some things about how Cecily was portrayed. The entire attitude toward disabilities in this series is sort of awful and bad portrayal of deaf characters particularly bugs me, since my mother is an interpreter.
> 
> If you catch any errors please let me know, because I'm on a backup computer for the time being and I can't seem to install my Grammarly. >.<


	3. Chapter 3

The inside of the precinct buzzed with activity at this hour of the morning. Plenty of officers coming and going, most of them not looking up from their individual pursuits as Zerbrowski escorted me in. He had a hand on the small of my back as we made a beeline toward RPIT's small corner of the place. Normally I would have stared him down until he removed the hand from my person, but not now. I was pretty sure the alternative was cuffs, so I didn't bitch. I contented myself with menacing anyone else who met my eyes. 

"Relax," Zerbrowski muttered as we passed a pair of officers just before the turn to the office. Both men paused, the taller of the two sizing me up like I was dangerous. Did he recognize me or was my glare really that good? Maybe it was the scars. Most people with scars like mine had dangerous jobs, which meant they were dangerous people. 

He wouldn't be wrong.

"Why should I?" I hissed back. "You're bringing me in for questioning for God's sake." 

Zerbrowski winced so hard that his spectacles slid a few centimeters down his nose. "You caught that, huh? I probably should have known. You're a sharp cookie, Blake." 

"Yeah, I'm a regular old Einstein. At least tell me what you think I've done. We've worked together for years and I've saved your ass a dozen times over. You owe me. I deserve to know what I'm walking into." 

He glanced down at me, regret clear in his hazel eyes. "You know I can't, Anita. It's against regulations. I might as well turn in my badge and gun if I clue you in."

The logical part of me understood that. The police work was the comparatively simple part of the legal process. When lawyers got involved things got infinitely trickier. I hadn't done whatever they were accusing me of. (Unless someone had spilled my collusion with the vampires during the District Serial Case, in which case I was fucked.) But if a lawyer knew Zerbrowski had told a person of interest the details of the case, the whole thing became suspect. A competent defense attorney would absolutely shred the case in court and the real culprit would walk free. 

The betrayal I felt wasn't logical. It fed that nagging, cynical voice in the back of my mind that told me trust was a pointless endeavor. Trust was just an invitation to be hurt. Almost everyone I'd placed trust in had stabbed me in the back at some point. My father, who'd promised to take care of me after mom passed. He'd been too deep in his own grief to comfort a heartbroken little girl. Eventually, he'd stuffed two women into our lives to fill the hole mom's death had left in his heart. No regard to how I felt about it. 

The few high school friends I had pretty much cut all ties when burgeoning depression had made me too difficult to deal with. My adult friends weren't much better. Monica, who'd been on the fringes and admittedly barely counted, had led Catherine and me into a potentially dangerous situation. I'd found out after the fact she was dating one of the vampire strippers and had been told to make sure I made it to the meeting, no matter what. Bert had sold me down the river twice now. 

And of course, there was Jeanette, the beautiful new Master of the City. 

My thoughts snarled every time I thought of her. Rage. She'd so thoroughly played me during our first meeting it was laughable. The whole thing was so damn humiliating it made me want to spit. She'd acted the part of a wounded dove so well I'd been tripping over myself to save her, even though I'd known who and what she was. All the while, she'd been the puppeteer. She'd secured the blackmail that Nikolaos had used to make me cooperate. She'd been watching me for three years, dreaming wicked dreams about the day she could make me hers. 

And then there was the damned arousal. She'd stopped entering my dreams after the confrontation we'd had in her office. I dreamed about her anyway. I even woke sweating and a little needy after a few of the more graphic ones. I wanted to put it down to Jeanette's influence, though I knew I was lying to myself. 

Denial is not just a river in Egypt indeed. 

Zerbrowski led me around the corner and through the open door into the offices of the Regional Preternatural Investigation Taskforce. It was relatively small, a little under the square footage of my apartment. It looked even smaller than it was, stuffed full of desks, all of them piled high with folders and loose paperwork. A breeze from one of the air conditioners stirred the papers on Zerbrowski's desk. It was messier than most. 

"No interrogation room?" I said, jabbing at Zerbrowski's guilt with ruthless precision. He _should_ feel guilty. He was my friend and he knew this wasn't fair.

He flinched again. "Anita, don't be an ass." 

"You first." 

I was aware of just how childish that sounded and I didn't regret a word. I'd fucked up once during an investigation and now Dolph was treating me like a common criminal. It rankled. And if I was honest with myself, I'd already been pissed before this. Gaynor had frightened me. I've always preferred angry to scared. 

"We'll be in Dolph's office. We'll record the questioning, of course, but Dolph doesn't want to piss you off. You're right. You've earned a lot of goodwill and we're willing to trust you at least that much. Don't make us regret it." 

My chest felt hot, my hands were balled into fists at my side, and static was beginning to crackle in my ears. All signs I was headed for an impending blowup. I had to relax or I was going to end up being tackled and tased for assaulting Dolph and/or Zerbrowski. 

I closed my eyes and focused on my breathing like I would on the shooting range. I tried to reach for that perfect point of clarity that came before taking the shot. It worked, somewhat. I was at least able to relax my muscles, even if the anger still simmered beneath the surface, threatening to return to a boil. 

When I opened my eyes again, we were stepping through the door into Dolph's office. Dolph was the only one with a proper office. Most of the rest of the Detectives worked in cubicles that offered next to no privacy. Dolph's office was painted a color called Olympus White but was actually more of a gray color. His furnishings were dark, the blinds were drawn so that only a few lines of the morning sun showed on the carpet. 

Detective Rudolph Storr looked menacing in the dim light of the office. He'd always had a formidable amount of presence. Hard not to, when he was closer to seven feet than six and bulged with muscle that would impress any sports scout. He was older than me. Older even than Zerbrowski, but you wouldn't know to look at him. There wasn't any gray in the sleek black hair that I could spy. 

He was giving me serious cop face, betraying almost nothing. His blue eyes were flat, his expression neutral, his hands folded placidly on the desk in front of him. It was the occasional tapping of his foot that gave him away. He only got like that when something upset him. I'd only seen him do it on a few cases. Jesus. Just how close were the alligators to my ass this time?

"Sit." It wasn't a suggestion. 

I sat and Bert inclined his head in the barest gesture of approval. Zerbrowski shut the door and dropped into the only free chair left in the room, scooting close to the desk. Apparently he was set to play good cop to Dolph's bad.

"What's going on?" I said stiffly. After a moment of consideration, I tacked on a grudging; "Sir." 

"Why don't you tell me, Anita?" he asked coolly. 

A hot flare of irritation made my chest burn. "I can't answer that until you tell me what you're accusing me of, Dolph. I'm in the dark here." 

He leaned forward, expression abruptly intense. I almost thought he'd swing the desk lamp to face me like cops did in old noir films.

"Where were you yesterday during the hours of nine pm to midnight?" 

I almost said, "Cliche, much?" but restrained myself. It wouldn't go over well. 

"Yesterday was a Sunday. I went to an evening service at eight, went out to dinner with the preacher, and then went home to take a shower and go to bed. I knew I'd have an early morning with a client today." 

I neglected to mention that the minister I'd gone to dinner with wasn't the one who preached at Christ's Church Cathedral. I'd been having semi-regular chats with Malcolm, the leader of the Church of Eternal life. I didn't trust him any further than I could throw him but he'd owed me a favor after I'd saved his life and the lives of his people. He'd been giving me the facts about what I could expect from the master/servant bond I had with Jeanette. 

To my immense frustration, there appeared to be no way to reverse the process short of killing her, which would likely kill me as well. She could only add more, not remove the ones she'd put on me. Two more marks and I'd be immortal. I was pretty sure I'd also be damned for all eternity, which made me less than keen on the idea. 

Dolph exchanged a glance with Zerbrowski. Something significant passed between them. 

"Can anyone confirm that?" 

"Veronica Sims. She and I go together and ask the clergy to bless our holy objects afterward. Never too much of a good thing, you know?" 

Zerbrowski was nodding along, relief spreading across his face. Dolph remained unmoved. I had to come out and ask. 

"Dolph, just what do you think I've done? Why are you staring at me like that?" 

Dolph was giving me the same steely stare as the officer in the hall. Like he thought I was dangerous, a bomb about to go off. Hurt just threw fuel onto the fire of my anger. Shout, instead of sob. Yes. Anger was better. 

"A family was slaughtered in St. Charles. At least, we're fairly sure it was the whole family. The child is missing but it just as easily could have been..." His taciturn mask slipped just a little and I saw something raw and ugly beneath. He recovered himself quickly, but I'd seen it. "The kid might be dead. We're not sure. There's barely enough left of the parents to fill a garbage bag. The kid could have been eaten entirely. There were teeth marks like the ones you identified on the cemetery guard during the District Serial case. We thought a flesh-eater might responsible." 

He gave me a narrow-eyed look. "Detective Reynolds says the psychic echo suggests multiple undead or bits of undead. Cross-referenced with what we know from the research Dominga Salvador did for the Department, it's probably something spliced together with voodoo." 

I felt sick. "You think I made a monster and sent it after them."

Dolph didn't say anything. He didn't have to. The truth lay unpleasant and heavy in the air between us. It was Zerbrowski that spoke. 

"Tammy has met the animators at your firm. She says you're the only one powerful enough to do it. That you're probably the most powerful in the United States, even."

"I'm not." 

Dolph raised an eyebrow at me. "You're the best, Blake. You can do up to six or seven corpses a night without fatigue. You could do something like this." 

"I didn't. And if any of you bothered to really look into it, you'd know I'm really _not_ the most powerful. In the top five in the country and top ten worldwide. But I'm not a necromancer. Not in the proper sense. Dominga Salvador is at least as powerful as I am. Dr. Georgia Hale is currently classed as the top animator in the States. She's successfully raised a five-hundred-year-old corpse without human sacrifice. No one thought it was possible until this year. It's been verified many times. It takes a Belgian Blue every time, but she can do it. She's in Saint Louis for a lecture at Barnett on Washington."

Dolph's suspicion slowly eased. "And you think one of them might have been able to do this?" 

"Maybe. They'd have the skill, certainly. But I can't say what motive they'd have. Salvador is a well-respected member of her community and a High Priestess for the State of Missouri. Bad press to start murdering families. I don't know Georgia Hale but she seems unlikely too. Why would she kill strangers before a high-profile event? Or at all? The real question is why you think I did this." 

Dolph gave me solid eye contact. His voice came out flat and cold. You could have taken an ice scraper to it. 

"Maybe your vampire master ordered you to." 

I went stock-still in my seat, the hot flush on my chest turning abruptly clammy. I fought to keep the shock off my face. Only a handful of people knew about what had really happened during the District Serial Case and I didn't think any of them would rat me out. 

Zerbrowski cursed. "So it's true then?" 

I cleared my throat. It was very dry and the words sort of crackled on their way out of my mouth. 

"How do you know about that?" 

"It's on record if you request them. The new Master of the City has listed you as her human servant. Your photo and business number are available to the public." 

"That fucking bitch!" I hissed. "She's setting me up. _Again_."

I was going to kill her before all was said and done. The marks she'd placed on me had proved useful, even though I resented the hell out of them. Putting it out in the open like this? Unacceptable. She had to know how it would look. What RPIT would think. Dolph thought I was compromised. He mistakenly assumed the marks made me a thrall to a Master Vampire. 

"Again?" Zerbrowski asked.

Oh hell. Hashing that out would lead us all down a rabbit hole of epic proportions. At the end of it lay a magical malfeasance charge. So I hedged.

"The injuries I sustained over the course of the investigation could have been fatal. Jeanette made sure they weren't." 

"Jeanette? My aren't you two friendly?" 

His tone was really starting to piss me off. "I didn't do this, Dolph. Talk to Ronnie or any of the attendees. I'm not your murderer. I'll look into Salvador and Hale for you if you want. But do _not_ look at me like that Dolph. I am not coffin bait. I have not turned traitor. Nothing that happened was my idea. If I could legally stake her right this instant, I would." 

It would make my life simpler. And...a little lonelier, I expected. Jeanette grew on people. Like mold. I didn't want her in my head but she was damn difficult to ignore. 

He must have believed me because the light sneer dropped. He still regarded me with suspicion. 

"You think you can get in contact with both?" 

"Yes." 

I'd need to call in favors but I could do it in theory. 

Dolph considered it. "I want Veronica Sims with you. You're not a P.I. yet. And frankly, I want eyes on you. I'd send Zerbrowski if we weren't also tangled up with a rash of therian attacks near the Greenway. Prove me wrong, Blake. Nothing would make me happier." 

"Fine. Am I free to go?" 

Tense silence. Zerbrowski gripped the armrest of his chair hard as if waiting for Dolph to explode. 

"Go," Dolph said. 

The word was frigid with dislike. I made for the door to hide a shiver. 

I didn't wait for Zerbrowski to escort me out. I all but sprinted past the two suspicious officers in the hall, dodging several milling policemen before I could bang out the front door. 

For the first time since August had started, I was relieved to suck in lungfuls of the baking air. It was fucking fantastic after the arctic exchange in the office. I stood like that for a few minutes, face toward the sky, letting the heat sink into my bones. Then, when I'd gotten the anger and nausea under control, I pulled out my phone, dialing Manny's number first. He knew the crowd better than I did, having once been a Vodun Priest himself. He didn't answer, which wasn't surprising. Our shifts usually ended just shy of dawn. He was probably sound asleep by now. I left him a message, telling him what I needed. 

I dialed the second number slower, reluctant to put myself through the ordeal I knew was coming. I'd been trying to squirm out of this meeting for a month now. She was the only one I knew who'd have the clout to get us in on short notice. Hale's lecture was taking place soon and the ticket prices were obscene. I had an inkling I knew what she'd want in exchange. 

The phone rang a few times before forwarding itself to voicemail. 

"You’ve reached the offices of Jeanette Davenay. We can’t take your call right now, let us call you back! Please leave us your name, number, the reason for your call and the best time to call you back – we don’t want to miss you again. Talk to you soon.”

I kept the message brief and to the point.

"This is Anita Blake. You better have a damn good explanation, Davenay. Call me back, or else."


	4. Chapter 4

The day was promising to be a long one. I had three missed calls from Catherine by the time the interrogation with Dolph had concluded. It had shaved a good hour off my day and cut into the time I was meant to be at the final fitting at The Maiden Voyage. The appointment with Harold Gaynor hadn't been the only reason I'd been up early today. 

I hadn't been fulfilling my duty as Catherine's bridesmaid (which I was admittedly horrible at so maybe it had been a blessing in disguise.) The second-degree burns I'd received last month had been fairly horrific and Catherine all but ordered me strapped to my bed until I was well enough to accompany her. She'd even offered me an out, allowing me to be a guest, not one of the bridal party. It had been tempting. Really, really tempting. Ultimately I decided against it. Catherine was my friend and I refused to let Valentine's last act fuck up Catherine's big day. 

So I'd be stuffing myself into some fluffy, pastel monstrosity on her behalf. After that, I had a funeral to attend at two and, according to the voicemail Jeanette's personal assistant, Cherry, a dinner date with the Master of the City at dusk. A private suite at the back of Paramour. Joy. 

Maiden Voyage was violently pink like someone had dunked every piece of siding in Pepto Bismol. There was white awning with matching pink trim just over the entrance, so it seemed as if the double doors were wearing a stuffy bonnet. On one side of the bridal boutique was a pizza place called "Slice of Life", ironically only two doors down from Full Dark Beauty, a vampire-owned beauty salon. The outside was black stone, the windows tinted all to hell to keep sunlight out. Red neon signs proclaimed a half-off style and shampoo for teenagers coming up. Therians would be doing the trimming during the daytime and the vampires would take over at dusk. 

Mrs. Cassidy was waiting for me outside the storefront, tapping her shoe impatiently. She glowered at my Jeep until I clambered out the driver's side with my purse. Her hair was caught somewhere between gingery orange and light brown, pulled up into a twist so tight I swear it pulled at the muscles of her face. Her eyes were magnified by the wire-rimmed glasses perched on her hawkish nose, giving me the strange feeling I was being watched by a particularly bad-tempered barn owl. 

"Ms. Blake," she said, dripping sweet poison with every word. "You've finally decided to turn up, I see." 

Would it be unprofessional to discreetly flip her the bird when she turned around? Probably. Best not to push it. 

"Well, you know how it is," I said forcing a manic smile. "Probation officers are so pushy. You shoot one man in the groin and everybody gets all precious about it."

Mrs. Cassidy's eyes flew open wide, apparently taking the sarcastic statement very seriously. Her hand itched toward the place where a pocket ought to be, if she hadn't worn a dress. She looked like she wanted to draw her cellphone and weaponize every lawyer in the area. Folks like Mrs. Cassidy tended to be litigious, so it was probably a bad idea to mock her. I was having trouble producing a fuck or two to give. People were dead, Dolph and Zerbrowski thought I could be responsible, the funeral was sure to be grim, and...

Jeanette. I'd be having dinner with Jeanette. There was no telling what else I'd be having with her before the night was through. What would she leverage in order to get the information I needed? And why was part of me looking forward to seeing her again?

"It was a joke," I muttered. "Let's get this fitting over with." 

Mrs. Cassidy let me enter first, probably worried I'd pepper her with bullets if she turned her back on me. The carpet was gray-white, the walls painted in a pastel pink so light it almost matched some of the bridal gowns. Elizabeth Markowitz, who preferred the nickname Elsie, was standing in the middle of the room, crouching next to her eight-year-old, Kasey, fluffing the ruffly gown she'd be wearing as flower girl. Elsie was tall, slender, and had inherited the silky fall of dark hair and an olive complexion from her Italian great-grandmother. Kasey was her mother in miniature. 

I stared at them both, appalled. _This_ was what Catherine had chosen in my absence? Had the spirit of a vengeful 80's drag queen possessed her? 

The gown was a pink only a shade or two lighter than the siding outside the shop. The bodice was cut low, which was already a bad sign. I didn't think my breasts were going to stay put without tape or divine intervention. The middle looked like an honest-to-God girdle, designed to push the waist in. I was pretty sure that anyone but a model would have bulges like the dough that spilled through a Pillsbury croissant container.

The puff sleeves were off the shoulder, which would mean that at least two of my scars would be visible. It didn't bother me but it sure as hell would bother fusty Mrs. Cassidy, who looked like she hadn't budged past the 1950s in style or temperament. I bet she'd find my profession...what was the word?

Unseemly? Yeah, that'd probably be it. 

The tag labeled it a taffeta evening gown. It hit Elsie at the ankles which meant I'd be swimming in mine. Could you alter taffeta? I had no fucking clue. 

"This dress is dumb-looking," Kasey huffed, crossing her arms over her chest. She was glowering down at the line of cabbage roses sewn to the waist of her complimentary-colored dress. 

Personally, I agreed. The girl had excellent taste. Out loud I said; 

"I think you'll look pretty no matter what you wear." There. That was diplomatic without bending the truth too much. 

I stripped off my blazer and reached for the buttons of my blouse as I made my way to the dressing rooms. Kasey's eyes zeroed in on the Browning in its shoulder holster. 

"Is that a real gun?" she asked. She and Mrs. Cassidy were both eyeing it. Kasey looked curious while Mrs. Cassidy appeared to be swallowing her own tongue. 

I probably should have taken it off. Oh well. 

"Yes, it is." 

"Mom says you catch monsters. Is that true?" 

I glanced at Elsie, wondering exactly how she wanted to play this. Ignore it? Lie?

I settled on a half-truth. "Yeah, that's part of my job." 

"Could you get the one under my bed? It's scary and it keeps me up at night."

I smiled indulgently. "Sure. I'll swing by sometime soon." 

Elsie mouthed a quick "thank you" over Kasey's shoulder before I stepped into the dressing room. Sure enough, my breasts threatened indecent exposure. The scar on the bend of my elbow and the scar on my collarbone stood out, mounds of hideous upraised tissue. I had to hoist the skirts up to be able to step out of the dressing room at all. 

Mrs. Cassidy took one look at the scars and promptly appeared nauseous. I was guessing she hadn't seen so much as a stubbed toe in her life. Injuries like mine must be a shock to her system. She tried to hide the soft sound of disgust behind a cough. 

"Give me one second, Ms. Blake. I think your outfit will require...accessories as well as an adjustment." 

Mrs. Cassidy scurried into one of the rows of satin and seed-pearls and disappeared from view. 

"Why do I have a bad feeling about this?" I muttered. 

"Cause Mrs. Cassidy hasn't smiled since the Cretaceous period," Kasey grumbled under her breath. 

I barked a laugh while Elsie stared at her daughter, expression warring between shock and disapproval. 

"Kasey Lynn Markowitz! That was rude! Where did you even learn that word?" 

"School. We're learning about dinosaurs. My favorite is the Spinosaurus." 

"I like the Plesiosauria. It's Mesozoic period though," I said, smiling down at her. I was really beginning to like Kasey.

"What's that look like?" 

"They say it's the inspiration for the Loch Ness monster." 

Kasey grinned broadly. "That's cool. You're so smart, Anita!"

"Thank you." 

Out of the back came Mrs. Cassidy, clutching what looked like a wreath of orange blossoms that trailed ribbons. In the other hand, she held a pair of pink opera gloves that matched the dress. I tried and failed to keep my tone polite.

"What the hell as that?" 

Mrs. Cassidy shoved them at me. "The answer to your...problem areas, girl. Put them on." 

I took a step back from her. "No." 

Mrs. Cassidy looked pained. Her eyes kept darting from the scars and then up to my face. 

"You have to cover those...things up, Ms. Blake. Catherine's big day should not be overshadowed by your..." 

"Scars. You can say it, Ms. Cassidy. It's not a dirty word."

She spluttered. "Ms. Blake-" 

"No," I said again, more firmly. "I got these scars in the line of duty, trying to keep the nice, normal people of Saint Louis safe. You don't have the right to look down on me for it." 

"She's right," Elsie said, standing so that all 5'10" of her towered over the saleswoman. Her face had gone very serious. Lawyer face, which was almost as intimidating as cop face. Yikes. "You don't have any right to be discriminating by appearance." 

Elsie's eyes slid over to me. "Why don't you change, Anita? I think we're done here. I'm going to call Catherine. I'm not sure this shop will work for us after all." 

Thank God. I rummaged in my purse, which I'd left on a stool outside the dressing room, opened my wallet, and fished out around four hundred dollars. 

"Use this on whatever you decide. I think you can get my measurements from Mrs. Cassidy here." 

I bolted for the dressing rooms and disrobed as quickly as possible under the circumstances. I didn't want to rip the damn thing and shell out a hundred and twenty for a dress I didn't want. By the time I left the dressing room, Mrs. Cassidy was only a few steps shy of groveling to keep the sale. I tried not to feel bad for her. She'd been the one to push things too far, not me. 

I checked my watch. A quarter to eleven. If I hurried, I might have time to get home and take Tylenol 3. It didn't make me dizzy anymore and it did help with the pain. My burns were beginning to flare up again. Then I could change and get ready for the funeral. 

I was half out the door when Kasey called after me. "Come to see me soon, Anita! We're gonna slay the monster!" 

I winked at her and before the door could close answered; 

"Wouldn't miss it."


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of suicide/suicide attempts/mental health

I hated funerals just on principle. 

I didn't think I was special in that regard. Nobody really attended funerals for kicks. No one wanted to receive the call Anne Burke had gotten at two a.m. on a Wednesday, instructing her to come to the police station. No one wanted to sit down with a nice officer who delicately danced around the idea of taking her to the morgue. No one wanted to learn that their husband had been cornered in a back alley, where his attacker had pressed a .357 Magnum with an expanding point behind his ear and pulled the trigger. She'd identified the body, just to be sure. 

I prayed to God there was someone who was looking after her. There were some things you'd rather die than live with. I knew for a fact there were some visuals that you couldn't scrub out with alcohol, drugs, or the best sex in the world. I coped by training hard and killing the things that scared me. If you weren't careful though, you'd let that pain kill you, one day at a time, taking bits of you, little by little, until you felt hollow enough that the only thing that filled the void was the thought of joining the dearly departed. 

Bert, Jamison, Matteo, Marcie, and I, along with a few others, sheltered beneath the shade of an oak overlooking the funeral plot where Peter Burke's body was being laid to rest. Animators are a rare breed and wherever possible, we turned up to each other's funerals. Odds were good that someday soon I'd be the one in the box. Would there be as large a crowd when I bit it? Somehow I doubted it. 

Manny would be there. His wife Rosita too. She was plus-sized and wearing a knee-length black dress. She'd hidden most of her loosely permed black hair under a hat. I wanted to tell her that the cut was too short for her face shape. 

And I knew I was only focusing on these details so that I didn't have to focus on the mourners too closely. My mother's death had been an accident but it still haunted me. I hadn't been able to open the casket to see her before they lowered her into the ground. I knew now I wouldn't have wanted to see. Peter Burke's death was worse. Not much of the skull left when you're shot with a Magnum at close range. But I remembered what it was like to be the child standing at the graveside. I knew what it was like to have a parent go to pieces, the way Anne Burke was doing now. 

The kids were only probably six and four. Too young to be here. A parent crying was a scary thing to kids that age. Parents are the ones who take care of you, who always know what to do. What did you do when mom was unreachable? 

I'd been angry when it'd been my father. I tried not to be angry with Mrs. Burke. It wasn't fair or logical. 

She was leaning forward in her seat, clutching her middle like she wanted to be sick. She was crying hard enough to throw up, great hiccuping sobs that made it hard to breathe. I'd only cried like that three times in my life. For my mother, for my fiance, Curtis, and for Phillip, a friend whom I'd failed to save from the monsters. I knew that ache. Knew that it wasn't just the tears and snot that made it hard to breathe. 

The man beside her rubbed her back in slow, soothing circles. He was tall, broad-shouldered, and handsome. Dark skin and dark hair trimmed high and tight, with a silver streak running through the center. But for the hair, he looked like a dead-ringer for Peter. John Burke. He'd recently transferred up from Louisiana after unsavory rumors started circling about him in New Orleans. It must be hell on Anne to look up into that face, so like Peter's, and know her husband's face had been turned into so much meat in a senseless mugging gone wrong. 

The minister was long-winded and had to speak increasingly louder to be heard over Anne Burke's sobs. He was a man in his sixties, hair and beard gone snowy white. If he'd been fat, he'd have made a good mall Santa. Instead, he was rapier thin. Severe frown lines creased his face when he was through making his speech. 

At a signal I hadn't seen, the coffin with its many pink carnations began to sink down into the grave. It would be sealed in a vault to keep it from sinking and to protect the corpse and coffin alike from the elements. 

Without warning, Anne Burke lurched out of her seat, knees hitting the grass around the grave. She crawled forward, eyes frenzied, clawing the ground. 

"No!" she sobbed. "No! No, you can't put my Peter down there! He hated small spaces. We can't do this to him!"

People stared, wide-eyed, and too shocked to move as Anne tried to catch the coffin lid and haul it up. What she'd do next, I had no idea. Peter was dead and none of us could change that. We couldn't even raise him, for fear he'd be a flesh-eater. Anne wouldn't want to hear that. I didn't think reason was going to penetrate right now. 

I was the first to unlock my muscles. I kicked off the heel's I'd worn, hiked up the maxi-skirt I'd wriggled into, and took off running down the hill toward the mourners. I was fast. I could do a five-minute mile when I wasn't horribly injured. In no time at all, I'd crossed the distance and reached Anne Burke. I toppled a few flower arrangements as I went. Dirt spilled out onto the tarp they'd placed under one row of seats at the graveside. 

Sinking to my knees beside her, I wrenched her back by her shoulders. She thrashed, spun, and tried to go for my eyes and hair. It was a typical rookie move and one most girls used. My hair was pulled into a tail, out of reach. Sunglasses protected my eyes. The best she was able to do was knock the sunglasses off before I got her in an armlock. 

I put just enough pressure on the joints to make her uncomfortable. She stopped struggling, letting out a pitiful whine. When I let her go, I expected her to go for the grave again. Instead, she lurched forward, this time toward me. Her arms were suddenly around me, squeezing me tight like I was the rock keeping her from going under. She pressed close, burying her face in the crook of my neck, sobbing harder than ever. The collar of my blouse was growing damper by the second.

I was frozen, unsure of what to do. Push her away? That sounded cruel at this point. At least she wasn't going for the coffin now. It had almost entirely disappeared from sight. The crew were casting anxious looks at the pair of us, rushing through their jobs to prevent another leap down into the hole. 

An older gentleman approached. I could see the resemblance to Mrs. Burke in his face. She'd inherited a squarish jaw, the caramel-colored hair, though his was streaked through with white. The contrast was striking. He had a child flanking either side of him, clutching his hands like they were sturdy, calloused anchors. The boy was the older of the two and he regarded his mother with anxious eyes. Her eyes. Big baby blues that some girl would fall hopelessly in love with someday. 

The grandfather looked as helpless as I felt. A quick glance around showed that most of the mourners were beating hasty retreats, sprinting toward their cars to avoid more maudlin displays from Mrs. Burke. Of the animators on the hill, only Manny remained. He and Rosita were starting down the slope toward us but I motioned them away. I didn't think this was a problem that numbers could fix. 

"Annie?" Grandpa asked, voice cracking a little. "Annie you need to come home now." 

Anne Burke's arms constricted around me with the force of a reticulated python. At least, that's what it felt like against the burned skin on my torso. It was very tempting to push her off. 

"I think you should go now, sir," I said as calmly as I could manage. "Get the kids to the car. They're scared." 

Anger kindled in his eyes. "You don't have any right to give orders, Miss. That is my daughter."

"No," I agreed. "But it would be best for your grandchildren not to see this. I'll watch over Mrs. Burke. I promise to bring her back after she's had a chance to calm down. I'll take her someplace. Get her coffee." 

He still regarded me with suspicion. "Annie?" 

I expected her to take his side. To clamber off of me and go to pieces again in the backseat with her kids. She surprised me by nodding against my throat, hiccuping too hard to articulate. 

"You want to go with her?" 

Another nod. She turned streaming eyes on her father. The mascara hadn't been waterproof and ran in dark rivulets down her cheeks. She clung harder. I fought back a cry of my own. Motherfucking, son of a bitch it hurt. 

He gave me a hard look. 

"Take care of my little girl." 

"I promise, sir." 

I'd even have her home before ten. I had a Master Vampire to meet tonight and a murder to solve. But first? 

A little talk.

***

Courtesy Diner pulled its aesthetic straight from the 1950s. The long aisle through the place was made of checkerboard tile. Most of the diner was dominated by a long red bar top with matching red pleather bar stools. The cook had his back to the crowd, flipping burgers or else setting items in the deep fry. Little napkin dispensers were buddied up to plastic mustard and ketchup containers. 

I skipped the bar in favor of one of the red and black booths near the back. The windows were large and let in a lot of light. It warmed the tabletop so we were all cozy in the remote booth. After a moment of consideration, I tugged the semi-opaque pull shades down. I suspected Anne Burke might cry again before the end of our conversation and I wanted to offer her what little privacy I could. 

We were silent until the smiling blonde waitress in her red-checked dress brought a coffee and a water to the table. Anne kept tapping the tabletop with her fingernails, drumming an anxious, staccato beat. When I thought the waitress was a safe distance away I spoke. 

"Gun, pills, or a razor?" 

Anne blinked at me owlishly. "What?" 

"In your purse. Which do you have? A gun, pills, or a razor?" 

She went very still, the drumming of her nails ceasing. Her expression closed off before I could get a good read on what she was feeling. My gut instinct was shock. Maybe a little shame 

"I don't know what you mean." 

I gave her serious eye contact. "Yes, you do, Mrs. Burke. Do I need to take it from you and check? It looks expensive. I'd hate to break it." 

Anne gathered the medium-sized, navy bag into her lip like it was a beloved child. "Don't." 

"Then talk to me, Mrs. Burke. I don't want things to get out of hand. I'm trying to help you." 

Anne's eyes went glassy with tears. Part of her updo had come down. She'd pulled wipes from the purse earlier. They were probably used to wipe sticky goop off her daughter's hands when the need arose. It had gotten most of the mascara off, but some had smudged around her eyes. It emphasized the bruise-like circles under them. She looked like a woman on the brink. 

She raked her nails down her face like she wanted to claw her skin off. She was shaking and the tears spilled over. 

"You can't possibly understand, Ms. Blake. I can't eat. I can't sleep. He was supposed to bring home pizza. It was Arty's birthday. He wanted pizza and ice cream but Peter never came home. I thought he was at a raising, even though I asked him to take time off work. I was so _angry_. And then..." She choked. "He was gone. And I was angry at him for not bringing pizza. They found it in his backseat. It's so incredibly petty now. I keep thinking of moments like that." 

"I do understand, actually," I said quietly. 

I didn't like physical comfort from friends as a general rule, let alone from strangers. I extended a hand toward her anyway. She needed something, _anything_ to cling to. If that had to be me, so be it. 

Anne took the hand at once, squeezing to the point of pain. 

"How can you? He was _murdered_ , Ms. Blake." 

"My fiance was killed by a vampire during our evening service at Cherith Church. All the guests were killed, actually. I'm the only one who made it out alive." I paused, my throat tight. "We'd signed the papers before they crashed the wedding. But there were no witnesses to sign it. Technically I'm not even a widow."

Anne blanched and wrenched her hand back. I took a swig of my water to loosen the knot in my throat. I was glad I didn't have the steaming mug of Joe Anne had chosen. I'd lost my taste for coffee after the incident with Valentine. I wasn't sure if I'd ever touch the stuff again.

"I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I guess....perhaps you had it worse." 

I shook my head with a bitter smile. 

"It's not a competition, Anne. Just because you lost only one person doesn't mean it's not a loss. Don't let anyone try to rank your trauma. It's complete bullshit. I'm just trying to get the point across. I _do_ understand. I know what it's like to have someone ripped out of your life long before you were ready to let them go. It feels like someone's choking off all your air. It's so fucking unfair you want to hit something. Even when you do, it doesn't make you feel better. That hole is still there, person-sized, and unable to be filled by someone else." 

More tears welled, then spilled over. In the light from another window, they almost looked crystalline. She was beautiful, even like this. I could see hints of her strength trying to rally. I got a brief glimpse at the sexy, self-possessed woman Peter Burke had loved. 

"How do you do it?" she whispered. "How do you go on? I try to look forward and I just see...a big nothing for me. I'm a single mother now. I don't make enough on my own to take care of the kids. Peter's savings will run out eventually. Arty and Serena have been staying with their grandparents since it happens. They're happier there. Maybe they'd be better off if I was out of the picture." 

"They're not. Trust me. I lost my mother to a car accident. It fucked me up. Just imagine how much worse it would be for your children to know you left on purpose." 

Anne squeezed her eyes shut and shuddered. Her hands clenched tight around her coffee mug. 

"I know," she breathed at last. "I know that." 

I downed my water until only ice remained in the glass. This talk was touching every sore subject I had. I wouldn't cry in front of Anne. Not when we were finally making progress. 

"You get through it because you have to, Anne. Because there are people depending on you. Because this part of the grieving process does pass. It passes like a goddamn kidney stone, but it _will_ pass. If you die now, you never get to watch your son play football or soccer. You never get to watch your daughter bring home the art she made at school. You miss proms and first dates, and drivers tests. You never get to see your son walk his sister down the aisle. You'll never get to know what they become. Isn't that worth sticking around for?" 

Anne drew herself up and swiped at the tears on her cheeks. Her chin set, and something steely and strong flashed in her eyes. Good for her. 

"What do I do now?" 

"First, you hand me whatever you have in your purse. Then I'll take you home. You can pack a bag. Call someone you trust and have them take you to the hospital for a psych evaluation. They can help you from there." 

She grimaced. "I hate feeling this...weak." 

I sympathized with that on a fundamental level. It just wasn't true in this instance.

"Admitting there's a problem is the bravest thing you can do, Anne. You meet it head-on and you kick its ass. For your kids. For Peter." 

"For Peter," she murmured almost to herself. 

Then she shoved a hand into her purse and produced a bottle of pills. Hydrocodone. Jesus. She'd have had complete respiratory failure in no time at all. I palmed it so no one else could read the label and then slipped the little orange pill bottle into my pocket. 

We stood and paid for our drinks, tipping the waitress a few extra dollars for giving us privacy. Anne took my hand on the way out. Maybe someone thought she was my girlfriend. It didn't look or feel sexual to me. 

"Can I call you?" she asked when we reached the Jeep. "Afterward? To talk. No one else I know would understand. I...I think it would help." 

There was nothing else to say to that.

"Of course you can. Now, let's get you home and pack that bag."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This second part is original stuff not modeled off anything in The Laughing Corpse. What happened in the actual scene pissed me. the. fuck. off. Anita essentially made this woman's grief all about herself and sneered at her for breaking down at her murdered husband's funeral. And that's all that's given mention. No compassion or empathy. And it isn't the only time Anita decides she has a monopoly on pain and tragic backstory (TM). Almost every harem member has a worse sob story than Anita and yet she is the only one given comfort for any of it. Hate, hate, HATE.


	6. Chapter 6

The trip back to Anne Burke's home had taken a half-hour. I'd been left in her kitchen, leaning awkwardly against the island as she phoned a friend to take her to the emergency room. I stared very hard at the sunny yellow cabinets and powder blue walls as I tried not to make eye contact with Anne's mother. She'd busied herself making a fruit salad for the milling group of mourners in the living room. 

I'd never quite understood why people baked when stressed. It took time. made a mess, and kept you away from everyone else. Maybe the isolation was the point? Hell, I didn't know. There was a reason I stuck to Shake 'N Bake, canned soup, steamers, and whatever leftovers Mrs. Pringle shunted my way. A domestic goddess I was not. 

Eventually, though, Anne emerged with a tote bag slung over one arm, supporting her daughter in the crook of one elbow as she waited for the friend to arrive ten minutes later. She bade Serena a tearful farewell before handing her off to her grandmother. Serena's frantic straining and crying for her mother was the hardest part to watch. After Anne was firmly seated in the Camry I beat a hasty retreat. Staying in the midst of mourning strangers while a little girl wailed for her mother was just too damn depressing, even for me. 

The tightness in my chest didn't ease until I was on my usual route home. The upbeat tempo of a Roxette song pumped into the interior of the car, but I couldn't loosen up to enjoy it. My fingers gripped the steering wheel so hard it hurt, and when the phone rang I jerked so hard I almost swerved into the next lane of traffic. I received a well-deserved chorus of car horns and a few fingers as I reached for the phone on my dash. _Superstition_ by Stevie Wonder. 

It was Manny's ringtone. I'd become very intimately acquainted with the works of Mr. Wonder while training with him. A little too acquainted. There were only so many times that I could listen to _In Your Corner_ before I went batshit. 

I snatched the phone from the magnetic holder stuck to my dash and jammed my finger on the button before it could go to voicemail. 

"Hello?" 

The voice that answered me wasn't the one I'd been expecting. With the same trace of accent but much higher. 

"Anita?" 

"Rosita, what's going on. Why are you calling?"

The whole thing with Anne Burke had lasted a few hours, so I was cutting things close. I didn't really have time for an involved chat with Rosita. 

I had just a few hours to go home, shower, and try to find something presentable to wear on my, erm, date. The only dress in my closet was one Judith had bought me three years ago. I hadn't been petty enough to exchange it. Judith just tended to be clueless about what clothes fit a figure like mine. Tall, slender, and with a modest B-cup, she could easily wear the halter-style dress she'd bought me. With breasts like mine? I'd have quad boob. 

"Why do you want to speak to Dominga?" she said in a tone so quiet and level that it made me pause. I didn't immediately hit the accelerator when the light turned green, earning me more fingers and car horns. 

This didn't sound like the warm, kind Rosita I knew. Yes, she could be a little too traditional for my tastes but she meant well. She didn't keep dangling suitors like bait in the water, hoping I'd bite out of spite. She truly thought marrying and having kids would make me happy. I couldn't seem to get it through her head that any sort of future like that wasn't in the cards for me. 

"I guess you heard the voicemail, huh?" 

"Tell me, Anita. What's the witch done now?"

I pulled the phone away from my ear a little so I could stare at the picture. Manny and Rosita, posed before the rose bush in their front yard beaming up at the camera. I couldn't reconcile this angry woman with the good-natured Rosita I knew.

"Nothing, as far as I know. RPIT has a case and Dolph thinks we could benefit from her expertise. She's done good work for the department thus far. She's uncovered a lot of evil shit we can now hopefully sidestep." 

I distinctly heard Rosita spit on the other end of the line. I boggled. What the hell? This wasn't like her at all. 

"She only knows evil because she _is_ evil, Anita. You don't know her like I do." 

That was news. I'd known Manny learned Vodun from Dominga. He'd been a teen, precocious and powerful, just like me. They'd started a relationship as soon as he was legal. Probably before, but I wasn't going to go digging into the details of Manny's sex life. I'd thought Rosita had come long after that. Perhaps it was jealousy talking? Or bad blood between the two? 

"Maybe I don't. But evil or not, I need to talk to her. She might be able to help RPIT crack the case. She's powerful enough that I'd rather not walk up to her door unannounced. Can you please tell Manny I need to speak to her? I'll only ask nicely once, Rosita. People are dead and I'll shake hands with the devil himself if it saves more innocent lives. I'll get in touch with Manny at work or on his cell later if you decide not to pass on the message." 

Rosita was silent for a long stretch. I managed to sit through two stoplights before she answered. 

"I am sure he will take you, Anita. Please be careful. Protect yourself. Protect him. Take a cross at least." 

"Crosses are only effective against vampires or demons, Rosita. Dominga's human." 

"Don't be so sure," Rosita muttered. "Please. Take your cross and your guns. Take everything you can." 

Rosita's voice was thick with fear. She was very serious about this. She thought I was walking into a situation dangerous enough I'd need most of my gear. Over the years I'd heard nothing but praise for the Señora. But...something deep in my gut told me not to brush this off. Maybe it was jealousy or maybe, Rosita, in her own way was trying to look out for me. 

"I will," I promised. "Nothing will happen to Manny, you have my word." 

The air rushed out of Rosita so quickly that static crackled through my speakers. 

"Thank you, Anita. Forgive me but I..." 

"I get it," I said, taking the turnoff to my building. "Manny's family. We don't let family walk into the lion's den alone." 

Rosita made a strangled sound. I wasn't sure if it was laughter or a soft cry. 

"Yes, Anita. Thank you. You are a good girl." 

I didn't know about that, but I accepted the compliment. "Thank you for passing the message on. It means a lot to me. I need to get off now. I have another lead to follow up on." 

"Be safe, Anita." 

"Always," I said, baring my teeth in what could only loosely be called a smile. Rosita wasn't here to see it, so she wouldn't call me on the outright untruth. 

We said our goodbyes as I pulled into the parking lot of my building. I checked the clock. It was dicey. I might have to skip the shower. My hair was a bitch to dry and style. I wasn't much good at it anyway. The curls, when not completely frizzed out by summer humidity at least offered a fairly effortless style even with simple ponytails or buns. I'd never heard any complaints from Bert, who was one of the most image-conscious people I'd ever met. 

So why was I worrying about my damn hair? This wasn't a date. It was an interrogation. Maybe I was trying for a game of one-upmanship with Jeanette? Petty as it could be, no woman I knew liked losing in a game of who wore it better. If that was the case, it was already a losing proposition. Jeanette was the most beautiful woman I'd ever met, vampire or otherwise. She could wear a trash bag and make it look sexy. 

"Get over yourself," I muttered as I climbed out of the Jeep. 

Easier said than done. A nervous tickle began somewhere around my navel. I refused to call it butterflies. I reserved my Monarchs and Swallowtails for people I didn't feel like staking every other day. Maybe it was the fact there were paparazzi after Jeanette on any given day. If I turned up with her at an intimate gathering, I knew how it would look. 

Yeah, that had to be it. It was bad for my image, bad for my job, and bad for my working relationship with RPIT to be cast as a vampire's girlfriend. 

I received a few nods of greeting as I made my way up the stairs toward my apartment and returned them absently, sorting out what the hell I could wear. Work attire didn't seem appropriate, the halter dress was useless, and I'd sweat through the clothes I was already wearing. I was still puzzling it out when I slotted my key into the lock, twisted, and stepped into my living room. The air conditioner hummed a breezy tune and blissfully cool air ruffled the damp strands of hair around my ears and at the base of my neck. It was soothing. 

For about four seconds. I'd just braced my hands on the counter of my kitchenette when the floorboards behind me creaked.

Oh fuck. Someone was in my house. Edward? He had a bad habit of breaking and entering.

No. He'd promised under the pain of Ronnie's vengeance to call first.

I began to turn, too late to face the intruder. An arm with huge, bulging biceps curled around my front, nestling just under my breasts, caging me in. A millisecond later I smacked into a broad, muscled chest, and the tip of a knife was pressed at a point between my ribs. A thrust upward could puncture my lung. 

A man's hot breath seared the skin of my neck when he spoke. I recognized it, though I'd only heard it today. 

"Don't move," Tommy the bodyguard said in a voice meant to menace. He was good at it. I was feeling pretty menaced right about now. "Come along now and no one has to get hurt." 

Well, it seemed like Gaynor wasn't going to take no for an answer. And that fact helped me keep calm, even with the point of a blade pressing into my ribs. Gaynor wanted me. I wasn't expendable. Tommy was. 

So, for the third time since gaining the marks, I reached out my will to Jeanette, sought her power. She was still dead to the world, but her essence burned like a white star in my awareness. She was leagues more powerful than she'd ever let on. I tugged some of it to me, infused my body with the ready strength she possessed. Aches momentarily disappeared, my heart stopped battering my rib cage, and my belly clenched tight with hunger. She wanted blood, even now. 

And in this moment, so did I.

I couldn't move either arm, so I threw all my weight back against the mountain of muscle, pushing off the ground with all the strength, half-jumping in a move that had to look ridiculous. No one could deny it was effective, though. My skull collided with Tommy's jaw, clacking his teeth together hard. And judging from his howl, he'd probably bitten his tongue as well. 

As soon as I was free, I dove for the knife block, grasping the first handle I found, drawing the cleaver. 

I turned, anticipation and hunger riding me and swung the knife right for Tommy's jugular.


	7. Chapter 7

The penguin-shaped macrame rug Mrs. Pringle had made for me a few Christmases ago was the only thing that saved Tommy from getting a neckful of cleaver. The material bunched beneath the heel of his boot and he went down hard, legs flying up in a manner reminiscent of a Tom and Jerry cartoon. The air burst from his lungs in a wheeze when he hit the tiled kitchen floor and something small tumbled out of his left hand. I got a brief glimpse of it as Tommy struggled to drag in air. 

It resembled one of the small sachets Judith tossed into our luggage when we went on family vacations. They'd often smelled like stale potpourri and I'd never liked wearing the shirts or pants that lay directly on top of the musty bags. I doubted this sachet was anything so benign. It was done up with green satin and tied with twine. A charm of some sort dangled off the side and at this distance, I couldn't say exactly what it depicted. 

Tommy recovered himself quickly, regaining his footing within a few seconds of going down. His hand flashed to his waistband, drawing the Spetsnaz Ballistic Knife he'd shown me earlier. Shit. Most ballistic knives were effective up to sixteen feet and traveled at almost forty miles an hour. I wasn't even a foot away. I had only a split second to react, a cry wrenching itself out of me as I twisted to one side. 

The blade split the air with a hiss, close enough I could feel the breeze of its passing. The shiny blade came to a quivering halt in the cabinet closest to my fridge. He'd missed me, but it had been a close thing. He still had a gun on him. Tommy was scared and had something to prove now. If he got a chance, he'd hurt me before he dragged me back to Gaynor. Judging by the look of the holster he wore, there was probably a silencer on the end of his weapon. It wouldn't stop my neighbors from hearing, necessarily, but it might stop people from calling the cops right away. Easy to mistake it for other, more mundane sounds. A shot in my foot or calf wouldn't necessarily kill me, but it'd hurt like a son of a bitch. 

I stalked forward, getting a better grip on the cleaver. I wanted my Browning so badly I could almost taste it. Trust the bad guys to strike during the one moment I wasn't carrying. I'd stopped taking the Browning and Firestar to funerals or weddings, at the prompting of friends and co-workers. It had been a difficult sell, given what had happened at my wedding. But Peter Burke had been a co-worker and Bert had insisted. Damn him.

Tommy let out a yelp, barely avoiding the cleaver yet again. Like me, he was off-footed, which gave me enough time to get in a good jab to his ribs. 

I heard at least two ribs snap. I hadn't even been aiming to break his bones, only to drive the air from his lungs again. Malcolm said I'd have enhanced strength and speed if I was willing to draw upon it. 

Tommy let out a strangled scream, a garble of syllables that sounded a lot like, "Bitch!"

I tried to hit him again. By that point, he was staggering toward the door before I could get either a blade or another sharp elbow into him. I doubted if he even remembered the gun in its side holster. He wasn't paying much attention to anything but the hand holding the cleaver so was beamed in the head by the corner of my door as it burst open. 

A man stood in the gap. He was shorter than Tommy, though no less muscular. Hard forearms, chiseled torso, sturdy legs that were shown to their best advantage in a pair of tight running shorts. Long, softly waving blonde hair had been pulled into a tail at the nape of his neck. He looked familiar. A neighbor I'd passed in the hall, maybe? For some reason, I didn't think that was it. Or maybe, that it wasn't the only time I'd seen him. No time to put it together now, with Tommy fumbling at his waist again. 

I almost shouted a warning, but what the stranger did next made the words catch in my throat. Inches-long claws simply sprung into being as his hands rapidly changed shape from mere human to something more lupine. Tommy stumbled, let out another yelp of fright, and jabbed something down into the newcomer's thigh. 

Not quick enough. New guy's claws sank in deep, ripping through the suit jacket and polo to dig furrows into his stomach. He staggered out the door, clutching his middle, making the sort of sounds you only hear from badly wounded animals. Someone needed to track him and put him out of my misery.

"Son of a bitch," New Guy hissed, plucking an emptied hypodermic needle from the muscle of his inner thigh. Then he swayed, bracing himself on my door jamb. 

It took me several seconds to think past the urge to swing the cleaver again. New Guy had arrived at the tail end of things and gutted Tommy as he attempted to flee. That meant he was probably on my side. On the other hand, he was a powerful wereanimal, judging by his aura and ability to selectively shift his hands. What were the fucking odds one of those would turn up at my door when I needed help? 

"Who are you?" I said, not moving to support him when he sagged to the floor of my entryway. 

"Stephen," he said after a second. His voice was thick like he'd liquored up before arriving. "Stephen Dietrich."

"Why are you here?" 

"Just...got up. Heard you scream." 

"So you decided to burst in? You should have called the cops. Who sent you here, Stephen?" 

Stephen's legs folded and he laid the back of his head heavily against the door frame. It lolled almost immediately, coming to rest on his shoulders. His entire body had taken on an almost rubbery quality, refusing to respond correctly as he tried to move the individual parts. 

"Ketamine," he grumbled. "Just what I fucking need. She's going to be pissed. First I didn't catch the bastard on his way in and now this. I'm useless for at least an hour..."

Horse tranquilizers? Jesus. Marks or not, I'd have been out within seconds. 

Then the meaning behind the slurred rambling hit home, and I finally remembered where I'd seen Stephen before. He'd been dressed like an Ulfhednar, bare-chested, with only a wolf pelt belted around his waist to preserve any sense of modesty. I hadn't paid much attention to the performers during my brief visit to the vampire-owned strip club, Iniquity. I only remembered him because of the very on the nose dance number he'd performed to Hungry Like the Wolf. 

"Son of a bitch..." I hissed. 

I wanted to swing the cleaver at something but the only convenient target was someone I had no business punishing. This wasn't Stephen's fault. Not really. So, with great difficulty, I peeled my fingers off the cleaver one by one and returned it to the block. My fingers bit into the lip of the counter so hard the wood groaned in protest. 

_Breathe in. Breathe out. I will not maim my neighbor. I will not maim my neighbor..._

"A little help here?" Stephen called from the doorway. The tone was light and teasing, but there was an undercurrent of worry lurking just beneath it. "I'm not sure I can stand and I don't think you want anyone to call 911." 

He was right, of course. Stephen had carved Tommy up in an effort to save us both, but the law wouldn't see it that way. Deliberate acts that could result in therianthropic infection were a felony. Stephen could end up in jail for twenty-to-life. If the judge was feeling prickly, there could even be a warrant of execution with his name on it. 

And how exactly would this look to Dolph? A werewolf stripper beholden to Master of the City just happens to live a handful of doors down from me? I was willing to bet he'd signed the lease the day after I'd confronted Jeanette. A big fucking coincidence? I thought not. Dolph wasn't stupid enough to believe it either. If I took this to the police the situation with Harold Gaynor became even thornier. 

I pushed away from the counter, grumbling obscenities, and crossed to the doorway. Stephen wasn't large, but he was muscular. It took some effort to get an arm under him and haul him inside without giving him a wicked case of rug burn. When I'd managed to kick the door closed behind us, I propped him up at the base of the couch and gave him a level stare. 

"How long have you been following me?" 

Stephen chewed on the inside of his lip, very deliberately not meeting my eyes. 

I sighed. "I'm not going to hurt you, Stephen, especially not after you helped me. But I need to know how long Jeanette's had you spying on me and if you're the only one." 

"I can't tell you that, Ms. Blake. If Mistress Davenay lets me go, I have nothing. No job, no prospects, and she's in tight with my pack. Raina and Marcus might..." Stephen shuddered violently and slid a fraction of an inch down the couch. "I can't. I just can't."

I shoved my hands into my hair in frustration, tugging at the roots. Goddammit, and here I thought this day couldn't get any worse. Homicidal millionaires, a cynical Police Sergeant, a scheming Master Vampire, werewolf neighbors, and a partridge in a fucking pear tree. 

Stephen continued speaking as I fumed in mute frustration. 

"I need to call someone. Can't take care of you like this..."

"It's a wonder you're still talking after all of that," I muttered. "Ketamine is no joke. Can your metabolism really burn it off that quickly?"

Stephen grinned then, a dazzling, toothpaste-commercial smile. It set his blue eyes to sparkling, giving him an almost boyish look. It made a person want to ruffle his hair and stuff a cookie into his hand. He thumped a hand on his chest. The muscle shirt showed off his torso, which was still nice to look at, even slumped over as he was. 

"Werewolf. This shit's not for pussies." 

I made a face. I didn't really like the word. No male equivalent that was quite as derogatory. He was drugged and at my mercy, so I let it go. Laying the verbal bitch slap now would feel like kicking a downed pinata. Sad and not worth the effort. 

"Can you reach into my pocket and grab my phone? I need to make a call." 

I gave his front a cursory scan, not spotting any pockets. 

"Where are they?"

That grin grew into something one could only describe as wolfish. 

"They're built into the back of the shorts, Ms. Blake." 

Sweet Christ. I was going to have to fondle his ass to get the phone. 

"Why me?" I half-whimpered. "Why is it always me?"

Stephen's laugh bubbled up slow, like the lackadaisical trail of air through thick liquid. It was throaty and enticing. His pillow talk must be stellar. 

"You do know there are a lot of women who'd kill to be in your position?" 

"Dealing with a half-drugged werewolf and runaway assassin? I'm sure every girl would be thrilled to trade places with me." 

That shut him up, thankfully, and he merely smirked when I bent over him, sliding a hand down the small of his back to the curve of his ass. The awkward positioning thrust my not insubstantial chest into his face so that the tip of his nose traced the swell of one breast. It was the closest any man had gotten to touching me consensually in the last three years.

"Which pocket?" 

I felt rather than saw him smile. 

"I can't recall, Ms. Blake." 

"Stop bullshitting me, Stephen. I could just leave you here."

"Right side," he said with another throaty laugh. 

I slid my hand the rest of the way down, groping along the curve of one cheek until I found the blocky contours of the phone and liberated it from the pocket. Then I withdrew as fast as the positioning would allow and offered him the phone. 

"Not sure I can dial," he pointed out, staring skeptically down at the phone. "I think you'll need to make the call."

"I need the passcode. And are you sure you want me knowing what's in your phone?"

"It's the backup cell Jeanette gave me for all things concerning you. I'm sure if she minds she'll replace it or have the number changed post-haste. The code is 021591."

My fingers paused over the digital keypad and a ferocious scowl twisted my lips. 

"My birthday?" 

Stephen blinked. "Uh...I guess. Sorry. It's just the code I was told to use when she gave it to me." 

"Not your fault," I groused, punching in the numbers like each had offended me. "Stupid, meddlesome vampire..." 

The phone's backdrop was also fantastically creepy. It appeared to be taken with a telephoto lens, far enough away that I'd never have spotted the photographer with merely human eyes. Taken at night, while Ronnie and I walked through the District for a case last year. Neon golds and reds outlined the planes of my face, creating dramatic shadows that made me seem paler and more delicate than I really was. Every curl stood out like someone had posed me for a shampoo commercial. 

My wardrobe wasn't as provocative as Ronnie's. She'd been posing as a hooker to draw in a vampire serial rapist. Still...there was something about the way the shot had been taken that stripped away everything I so hated about my appearance and made me look...

Beautiful. 

The unthinking pleasure at the expertly doctored photo disappeared like suds down the drain as the facts hit home. Jeanette had been following me for years. She'd admitted as much when we last spoke but seeing the evidence of it was another thing entirely. How many of the scrapes that I'd found myself in could have been prevented if she'd been willing to help? How many people's lives could have been saved? 

And more chilling still, had she ordered her people to remain on their pale, undead asses while my entire wedding party was slaughtered? Allowed Jett Mayer and his band of thugs travel up from the Kansas City Kiss in order to get my pesky fiance out of the way? I didn't think she had the clout to order a hit on Curtis three years ago, but that didn't mean she wasn't culpable. I'd have taken any help. Even a vampire's. 

"Um...Anita?" 

I glanced up from the phone, realizing belatedly that the case was creaking beneath my fingers. Drawing upon Jeanette's power, I had the strength to crush the cell to bits in my palm. After a few labored breaths, I relaxed my grip. 

"I'm fine," I lied, opening and thumbing through the contacts to keep a lid on the impending eruption. 

There would be a thermonuclear detonation but it wasn't meant for Stephen. When the F-bombs dropped, they'd be on the vampire deserving of them. 

I scrolled through the contacts until I came upon a name I was familiar with, pressed call, and waited. The man on the other end picked up on the first ring. 

"Stephen?" 

"Stephen can't come to the phone right now, Rafael. Mind telling me why the fuck your name is in Jeanette's creepy cellphone contacts?"

"Anita...fuck..."

"I get that reaction a lot," I said dryly. 

My lips were losing the battle against a smile. I was still fucking pissed he was in on this, but given what I knew of the vampire power structure, it shouldn't surprise me that Jeanette had somehow conned him into working with her. I liked Rafael. We'd even gone on a date of sorts after the District Serial Case. It hadn't been very exciting, given I was recovering from second-degree burns. He'd taken Ronnie's place one evening, babysitting me. We'd eaten takeout. My feet had rested on one of his thighs. We hadn't spoken much, just watched old game shows until I fell asleep. 

It was probably safe to say I had a soft spot for the handsome wererat. 

"What's happened to Stephen?" 

"We were jumped by a would-be kidnapper. He took the dose of Ketamine meant for me. He's conscious but he's not moving fast." 

Rafael cursed under his breath, a mix of Spanish and English. I caught most of it. 

"I'm a little wrapped up here, Anita. I can't come directly. Mind if I send someone in a car for you? You need to get out of there and I don't want you traveling alone." 

"I'm a big girl, Rafael." 

"Yeah, you're the fucking Executioner and now you know they're coming. Which is why they'll come harder next time. Don't let stubbornness get you killed, Anita. I like you a lot. I think we could be friends. And I'd kind of like a second date if you're up to it. You'd be amazed what we could get up to now that you can walk straight."

It probably wasn't his intention but the last, teasing addition lifted my mood. 

"In your dreams, Rafael." 

"Every night, babe." 

I finally cracked a smile. "Fine, I'll take the car. Who are you sending?" 

"It's a surprise. See you sometime soon, God willing. Be safe, Anita." 

"You too, Rafael." 

He hung up and I tossed the phone into Stephen's lap. He was smirking at me. His keen ears hadn't missed a second of the exchange. 

"So you like rats, huh? I never pegged you as a fur-fucker." 

"I'm not. And call anyone that in proximity of me again and I'll black your eyes. It's not your business who anyone fucks, unless you're the one fucking them. And even then, only to a point." 

Stephen tried and failed to raise his hands defensively. They just slithered back to the ground like cooked spaghetti. 

"Sorry, didn't mean to touch a nerve. I just didn't know you had a thing with the Rat King." 

I didn't bother trying to explain it to him. I didn't have a thing with Rafael and I wasn't sure I wanted to. At this moment? Who I was dating was a complete non-issue. 

"I'll get you comfortable on the couch so you can sleep this off. When you wake up, I expect you gone. Steal anything or trash the place and I'll call the cops. Got it?" 

He nodded meekly. 

It took me several minutes to haul the werewolf onto the couch. He tried to assist but was more of a hindrance than a help. He ended up awkwardly sprawled on my cushions, facing the TV. I shoved the remote into his hand. 

"Do not TiVo anything and if you value your life you will not watch porn in my apartment."

He let out a big belly laugh. "As if I could get anything below my waist to cooperate if I did." 

Point. 

With that out of the way I turned, scooped up the green satin sachet Tommy had dropped. It was about half the size of my palm and dangling from the twine was a small charm that spelled out Ameles potamos. Lethe. The River of Unmindfulness. I was willing to bet that the herbs within were deadly nightshade and belladonna, herbs used by witches to help ease the pain of remembering in conjunction with certain spells.

This was a very powerful charm made by a very powerful witch. It was almost touching the line of magical malfeasance. Harold Gaynor must have paid out the nose to get just this small sachet. No wonder Stephen and I hadn't noticed anything until it was too late. This rendered the user all but invisible. The creak had given him away. If he hadn't inadvertently signaled himself, altering my perception to undo the spell, he'd have had me for sure. 

It was one-use only, I was betting. I couldn't be sure until I took it to someone with more expertise. I was betting Dominga Salvador would know who could have made something like this. I slid it into my bag for safekeeping. 

"Now, to find something to wear," I muttered, squinting at my bedroom. Definitely no time for a shower. Perhaps not even for makeup. I'd just have to change and go. 

"Erm..." 

The sheepish word had me turning back to face Stephen. His eyes slid slowly over to the boxes beside my door. There tended to be a few piled up when I got up or came home. I worked the opposite shift to most delivery services. Mrs. Pringle had a copy of my key and would slide them to the side of the door when I worked late or went out of town to serve Warrants of Execution. 

His eyes lingered on a shiny silver package stacked on top. 

"No," I groaned. "She didn't." 

"She did," Stephen said with a sigh. "Sorry. She...likes to style people." 

I crossed to the box with a scowl and plucked it off the stack. The shiny satin ribbon came off the box with a sliver of sound, curling onto the floor at my feet. Sucking in a deep breath, I lifted the lid and peered inside. 

"You have got to be fucking kidding me."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I searched the wikis and couldn't find Anita's birthday definitively. I'm going through the series again, but it's slow. If anyone can remember an actual date, I'll change it. In NiC it's stated her birthday is early in the year, so this is what I'm going with for now. And since I'm setting this in the 2010s (cause I'm lazy) I made her a 90s kid instead. I'm setting his around...2015 or so? It's loosey-goosey. I'll try to keep it consistent where possible. If anyone can correct the Month/Day, I'd appreciate it! :)


	8. Chapter 8

I received several sidelong glances as I leaned against the side of the building. My displeasure must have been palpable because even the younger men who swept their gaze over me appreciatively didn't comment or wolf whistle. And they say the youths these days can't learn. 

Just after dusk, a burgundy 1969 Lincoln Continental Mark III Coupe pulled into the visitor's parking area near the front of the complex. The irate swirl of thoughts that had occupied me for the last fifteen minutes came to a violent halt when I spotted the luxury car. The desire to be pissed at Jeanette warred with a childhood obsession with all things motorized. 

Grandma Blake had taught me how to do regular maintenance on the junker I'd bought in high school and salivating over classic, muscle, and luxury cars had been one of the few ways I could bond with dad after he'd remarried. Judith and Andria didn't understand the appeal, leaving Dad and me to enjoy our hobby. It'd felt like getting him all to myself for a few precious hours. It was nice while it lasted. 

I pushed off the side of the building, hiking the skirt of my ridiculous outerwear unconsciously. It wasn't actually necessary for this dress, as it had fit like a tailor-made, ridiculously expensive glove. Jeanette had clearly been waiting to send this gift to me for a year or two. Though not exceptionally short for a woman in the United States, it was still difficult to find pants, shirts, dresses...hell, anything that fit right. Most things had to be hemmed so I didn't step on them. The rare finds that could fit me length-wise had to contend with my unreasonably large hips, ass, and breasts. I'd actually been toying with the idea of getting a breast reduction. They didn't hurt now but in a few years, I'd probably start dealing with pain. I didn't need more of that than I already had. 

The tag on the gown had called it an "A-Line, Floor-Length, Claret Silk Dress with Princess Neckline with detailing." The tag itself had looked like an expensive greeting card. Black with embossed gold lettering and the signature scarlet rose and thorned vines punctuating the logo. A Belle Morte original piece. There were celebrities who'd love to rip it off me and take the damn thing for their own. One look at the price tag and I could hear my wallet begging for mercy. 

Stephen had ordered me to sit at the base of the couch and, as his strength returned somewhat, he'd arranged my hair in a low braided updo. Whatever that meant. It got most of the hair out of my face. 

The window of the Coupe rolled down and a male head poked out of the gap. Young and blonde with blue eyes. He was grinning from ear-to-ear. He looked about fifteen, though I knew better. You had to be eighteen in order to turn, and when we'd met, his mom had been trying to press-gang him into the Church of Eternal Life. From the looks of it, she hadn't succeeded. He was flushed and very alive. He looked healthier than when I'd seen him in the offices of Animators Inc. Stage four pancreatic cancer had been slowly killing him. He'd been an exception to the laws around deliberate infection. In the case of grievous bodily harm or terminal illness, the option could be extended. It was a supervised blood transfusion done by a trained medical professional.

"Joshua!" I said, an answering smile forming on my lips. 

"Anita! You look great!" 

"You don't look half-bad yourself," I teased. "Who'd you steal the car from?" 

Joshua laughed that laugh that only small kids or the really sheltered seem to have. The no-care-in-the world, no-holds-barred joy. They held nothing back because life hadn't driven the air out of them with well-placed punches yet. I was amazed he'd kept his. Cancer was a hell of a punch.

"It belongs to the Master of the City. She's given me a job as her chauffeur and she put me in contact with Rafael. I turned last month and the doctor says the cancer is gone."

"How'd your mom take it?" I asked, rounding the car to open the passenger's side door. 

I slid inside. The interior was burgundy leather that matched the paint job. In the silk dress, the leather seats felt like a slip and slide. It took me a few seconds to arrange the dress and belt myself in. 

"She's relieved and pissed. She doesn't like the idea much but she can't argue with the results. I can still come to church, eat regular meals, etcetera. She's worried about eventual grandkids. Mowgli Syndrome, you know?" 

"Cross that bridge when you come to it." 

He nodded. "Exactly what I was thinking. I need to get a girlfriend before I worry about kids. Chemo sort of put a crimp in my dating life and it wasn't even helping, just making me lose hair." 

Joshua was a wererat. To my surprise, it didn't make me like him any less. I was glad he'd managed to escape Malcolm's cult. Even if I appreciated the church leader's insights, I still didn't trust him around humans. Had I helped turn Joshua into a monster? Maybe. But I was okay with it this time around. Sometimes monstrous was better than dead. 

He put the car in drive and we slid smoothly out of the parking lot. Would it be excessive if I pet the purring car like a cat? Probably. 

I was caught between wanting to be angry that Jeanette knew me so well and just enjoying what she'd thrust before me. The frustrating part was that I knew so little about her. She'd already proven she was a phenomenal actress. She wasn't anything close to the perky, air-headed woman she'd portrayed in the reality TV show _Suckers_ , the lovelorn romantic she'd played in the rom-com _Love Bites_ , or the smarmy comic relief she'd played in the horror flick _Dead End Street._

She was clever, she was patient, she was manipulative, and she was beautiful. She'd wield all of that and more with surgical precision, striking when the time was right and leaving no room for counterattack. But other than that? I knew nothing. I didn't like going into battles blind. And there was no doubt in my mind that dealing with Jeanette Davenay was going to be a battle.

Joshua kept up a steady stream of conversation the whole way but I didn't pay attention to most of it. I chimed in with noncommittal responses when he paused for a reply, but most of my concentration was on what had just gone on in my apartment. 

How valuable were the family heirlooms Gaynor wanted? They had to be damn near priceless if he was willing to expend three to four million to pay me, thousands for the sacrifice, and probably an additional grand or two for the spell-laced sachet that Tommy used to pass through the apartment complex undetected. 

I was hoping that Jeanette could shed some light on the situation. Once upon a time, she'd been in Belle Morte's inner circle, which meant she'd lived in New York. I was betting she'd rubbed elbows with some of Gaynor's crowd if she hadn't already met the man herself. With luck, she might be able to give me insight into Gaynor. Failing that, she was capable of finding others who could. 

The question was, what would she demand in return? The last time we'd spoken, she'd made her desire to bed me clear. Was I willing to pay for the answers on my back? I still wasn't sure. 

The drive from my apartment complex to Paramour was a half-hour in the heavy traffic but in my distracted state, it seemed like no time at all. Joshua slid the Coupe into a VIP parking spot and put it in drive. 

"Good luck, Anita," he said, giving me a small, shy smile. "And thanks for everything. If you ever need help..." 

"Sure. Rafael can give me your number. I'll call." 

I couldn't imagine a favor I could ask of Joshua. Therian or not, he was still a kid. My jobs, both of them, centered around blood and death. I wouldn't drag him into something like that. Everything else in my life I handled on my own or with the help of Mrs. Pringle, in the case of my lackluster domestic skills. 

Maybe he could fish sit when I went out of town next? 

I stepped out into the baking air, the heat buffeting me like I'd just opened an oven. Just like this morning, there was no breeze to ruffle the ankle-length skirt or provide some measure of relief. 

God in heaven. It hadn't even been twenty-four hours since the meeting with Gaynor. He hadn't wasted any time, had he? How could so much awful be packed into one day?

For a moment I stood on the asphalt, staring at the front of Paramour. Like most of the businesses that Jeanette owned, it was rather stately. It looked like it had been swiped from the French Quarter. Built in the style of a creole townhouse, it was two stories tall and composed of bright red brick. The windows on the second floor were arched and a wrought-iron balcony ran the length of the second floor. The roof was steeply pitched, with parapets and roof dormers. The walls balconies and some of the brick facade had been half-concealed by climbing ivy. And just above the door was a neon sign bearing the restaurant's name done up in looping calligraphy. 

I steeled myself and then marched to the pair of double doors. 

A man of around average height stood behind a podium just to the side of the doors. He was generically attractive, in the way that waitstaff tended to be at the few five-star restaurants I'd visited in my life. Slicked-back brown hair with a hint of wave, straight nose, green eyes, false smile. 

"Good evening, ma'am. Might I ask the name for your reservation?" 

"Davenay, party of two. I assume she's already here?" 

She did own the place after all. Reserving a spot under her own name was probably child's play. 

The Maitre d's eyes widened almost imperceptibly. If I hadn't been glowering at him, I wouldn't have caught it. As it was, I saw him grow a little paler, adjust his collar, and nod to himself. Nervous or truly scared? What was Jeanette doing to her employees to provoke this reaction?" 

"Oh, I see. You must be Ms. Blake. Miss Davenay has booked a private suite. This way, please." 

I followed the nervous young man through the maze of tables that made up the outer edge of the lounge. They were draped in pristine white tablecloths, silverware already bundled on the surface. Each had a centerpiece with a half-dozen long-stemmed, white roses and tonight, almost every table was occupied.

There was a long, oak-paneled bar that wrapped around one wall as well, but neither the food nor the alcohol were the star attraction when one visited Paramour. Both were stellar, as a half-dozen critics had already proven. But the real draw was the singer and the brightly-lit dance floor. It was one of the most in-demand wedding locales in all of Saint Louis. 

In fact, the attendees looked to be attending a wedding reception. Most of them were dressed in muted tones, so as not to upstage the bride. My claret dress stood out like a bloodstain on one of those crisp, white tablecloths. A few heads turned as I was led past and I did my best not to squirm uncomfortably. I hadn't known. At least most of the attention was still on the bride. She was a tiny thing. Under five feet tall, 4'11" if I were a betting woman. She looked blissfully happy in her ivory dress, twirling round and round with her new husband. He was almost six feet himself and the juxtaposition was almost comical. 

Jeanette wasn't the singer tonight, though by all rights she should have been. Jeanette was the star attraction on Mondays and Fridays, splitting the rest of her workweek at one of her other, myriad businesses. I supposed she had to delegate her responsibilities now that she was Master of the City. Were the guests disappointed? That was probably why they'd been willing to plan the reception at such an inconvenient time.

I wasn't sure who the woman on stage was. I knew there were three vampires who regularly performed. Jeanette, Yasmeen, and Gretchen. Maybe I was profiling, but the woman on stage didn't look like a Yasmeen. The name was Arabic and this woman was...not. She was slender, blonde, and paler even than I was. Her hair fell to her waist in soft waves and her makeup somehow gave her a soft, dewy appearance that made her look more fae than vampire. Gretchen? She seemed like a Gretchen. The song was familiar, though not my favorite. I tended to shy away from Country music as a rule. In my hometown, Stillwater, it had been difficult to listen to anything but. 

The host guided me past the wedding party and toward a hall off the main room. There were three doors on each side of the corridor. Six private suites to choose from. He guided me to the very last. He held the door open for me with a polite smile and gestured for me to enter. I didn't snap at him the way I would have Dolph or Zerbrowski. In Zerbrowski's case, he'd be doing it simply because he knew it irritated me. This man was just doing his job.

"Your server will be in shortly. Please enjoy your visit, ma'am." 

Fat chance. I nodded anyway and stepped through the open door. 

The room was small and the only window was covered with a heavy, scarlet curtain to keep light out. It made the round table in the middle of the room look larger by comparison. The only illumination came from a pair of tapered candles, which took the place of the usual white-rose centerpiece. And, sitting on the side opposite the door, was Jeanette Davenay. 

The sight of her momentarily drove the breath out of me. Seeing her always made me contemplate the unfairness of the genetic lottery. She was so beautiful it almost hurt to look at. She was wearing a long-sleeved black, backless dress that clung to her slender frame like a second skin. The neckline wasn't even that low. Just a hint of cleavage at the top. She was a B-Cup at best, so she must be wearing a strapless push-up bra beneath the dress. 

The simplicity of the look really only served to emphasize how stunning she was. Some women, like me, needed the bells and whistles to look good. Not Jeanette. She wasn't even wearing much makeup tonight. A light gloss on her full lips and a little mascara to emphasize the long, thick lashes. 

So fucking unfair. 

She flashed me a rare, toothy smile. Most of the older vampires, Jeanette included, had learned to smile carefully over the centuries. With vampire hunters roaming around, ready and willing to kill you for simply existing, you could never be too careful. Her dainty fangs glittered in the low light. She was rosy-cheeked, obviously well-fed. 

Well, at least I wasn't on the menu tonight. 

"Anita." She made my name sound indecent. Like pillow talk after a really good fuck. "You look beautiful." 

Bullshit. But there were much larger things to call her out on, so I considered the chair across from her skeptically. 

"You could have just called, you know." 

"I wanted to see you. You've been avoiding me." 

I crossed my arms over my chest. "Of course I have. I didn't sign up for this, Davenay. It's fucking with my jobs. I got dragged to the station today because Sergeant Storr thinks that you've made me a thrall. Why the fuck did you list me as your human servant on the public record? I'm not." 

She pursed her lips. "Sit." 

"Not until you answer the damn question."

She studied me for a fraction of a second, those deep blue eyes unreadable. She ought to have been playing Texas Hold 'Em because she had the best damn poker face I'd ever seen. She finally blew out a breath. 

"It would have made things more difficult for both of us to omit it." 

"Oh that's a load of horse hockey, Davenay." 

Jeanette arranged her hands primly on the table, a tiny frown tugging down one corner of her perfect mouth. 

"A vote does not always a Master of the City make, Anita. There is a subtle balance to be maintained between the members of my Kiss and the wereanimal groups in the city. Having a human servant elevates my status and gives me more potential power. Though, with your refusal to speak to me, whispers are beginning to circulate." 

My foot began to tap impatiently. It sounded impressive on the hardwood floor of the room. The four-inch heels were killing my arches, though. 

"I fail to see how this helps me." 

She quirked a perfectly plucked brow. "How do you think your allies in the police would have reacted to the situation after the fact? They'd believe you compromised more certainly than they do at present." 

I hadn't actually thought of it that way. If Dolph and Zerbrowski had learned of my ties to the Master of the City during an ongoing investigation, particularly one involving vampire perps, there'd have been hell to pay. Maybe she had a point. But if she thought I'd be grateful for it, she had another thing coming. 

I pulled out the chair across from her and folded myself awkwardly into the seat. I'd never been good at sitting in dresses. Not at church, prom, or my own damn wedding. Just as soon as I was capable, I'd run off to find pants and sneakers to wear.

Jeanette smiled gently. "Thank you, Anita. Would you like something to eat? Or perhaps, a drink?" 

"You know I don't drink and frankly, I'm a little scared to eat in this thing. Fifteen thousand? Really? You know that's almost a quarter of the annual income in Missouri?"

"The prices normally start at thirty thousand for simple personalized designs. Belle's time is valuable. This piece might have been...sixty thousand on average?" Jeanette's smile became a little sly. "I'm allowed the friends and family discount. So, if it makes you feel any better, it could be worse."

It didn't make me feel better. 

"Will this thing be ruined if I spill water on it?" 

Her eyes sparkled. "You could always strip down to the slip I provided."

"Oh you'd just love that." 

She laughed. "Oui, but it would still be within the bounds of decency, I think. It would cover you to mid-thigh." 

I considered it briefly and then shook my head. "I think I'll just pass on dinner." 

Some of the laughter fled her eyes and she half-extended a hand toward me before seeming to think better of it. 

"I don't wish to starve you, ma petite. It sounds as if you've had a full day and I've observed you often don't eat well when stressed. If you like, we could do dinner elsewhere." 

I scowled. I hated that she knew me so damn well. 

"The stalking is really fucking creepy, Jeanette. What the fuck is with the picture on Stephen's cell phone? Who took it? And have you papered your bedroom with candid shots of me yet?"

The smile dropped from her face entirely and the temperature in the room dipped by a degree as her power flared outward. Strange. I'd only ever met animators that could do that. She really _could_ siphon off bits of my power. 

"How do you know about Stephen's cell phone, ma petite?"

How much should I share with Jeanette? Would revealing the whole story make things worse? It didn't seem possible at this point, but I was sure she could find a way. I finally settled on; 

"A man broke into my house and tried to drug me with Ketamine. Stephen took the dose instead in an effort to protect me. He's sleeping it off on my couch."

Jeanette blanched and she muttered a string of curses in French. "Do you know who sent the assailant, ma petite?" 

"Not for sure, but I have my suspicions. That's why I needed to talk to you. I need information and a favor." 

Jeanette plucked a fork from her side of the table and began turning it over in her fingers. It was the only nervous gesture I'd ever seen her make. Things must be bad if the composed vampire queen was losing her cool. It was a little mesmerizing to watch the fork twirl between her fingers, moving at a speed that made it just a steel-colored blur. 

"What do you require, ma petite?" 

"I need information on a man named Harold Gaynor. Any associates, family, criminal record, and underworld connections he might have. He was an investment banker on Wall Street years back, so you'd probably know people he mingled with." 

"And the favor?" 

"I believe he may be targeting another animator to do a job I refused this morning. Her name is Dr. Georgia Hale." 

"The necromancer who is conducting a lecture at Barnett on Washington?"

I paused. "She's lecturing there, yes, but she's not a necromancer. There hasn't been a true necromancer in almost a thousand years."

"She is a necromancer. Most of the undead in the city can feel her pull. I am only immune because of my ties to you. There is talk you may be a necromancer as well, ma petite. Your power simply grows with every passing year." 

"I'm not a necromancer," I insisted. 

Jeanette shrugged and I could tell just from the noncommittal roll of her shoulders she didn't believe me. The waiter came and, against my objections, she ordered sparkling water, Caviar and Crème Fraîche Tartlets, and a piece of Raspberry-Chocolate Cheesecake. She asked that they be brought out at the same time and didn't speak again until he'd left.

"You wish to warn Dr. Hale she is in danger but cannot acquire tickets on short notice." 

"Yes." 

She gave me very direct eye contact then. I almost felt like I could drown in the deep blue of her eyes. The marks meant she couldn't bespell me, which made her incredible draw even more frightening. It meant there was something inside of me prompting the reaction, nothing she herself had done. 

"What are you willing to pay for my help, Anita?" 

My stomach did a violent backflip. We'd finally arrived at the part in the proceedings I'd been dreading. Would she ask for sex? I'd never had sex with a woman before, though porn and shows like the L Word had given me a pretty good idea of the basic mechanics. Despite the dreams I'd been having, I wasn't convinced I'd enjoy it. Could I grit my teeth and ride it out? Fake an orgasm to satisfy her? 

I could wait for the information to come through the proper channels, yes. In that time, more people would die. Sex with Jeanette didn't seem like a fate worse than death. Still, it was so damn humiliating to consider prostituting myself to a vampire to get what I needed. I was good at killing things, not negotiating. This wasn't something I could punch out of her.

I was silent for long enough the water, appetizer, and dessert arrived. I took a sip of sparkling water to forestall speaking another few seconds. 

"You're frightened, Anita," Jeanette whispered. "I can hear your heart. Smell it on your skin."

"What do you want?" I hedged, setting the glass back on the table. "Sex?"

"With you? Someday, yes. Do you truly think I'd force the issue?" 

Hurt flashed through her eyes. She looked like a kicked puppy. 

Great. Now I felt like an asshole. But what else was there to say? 

"Yes." 

"Yes, it's true. I want another of your sweet kisses. I want to rip that dress off you, ma petite. I dream of feeling your skin on mine and imagine what it would be like to taste you every day. But I will _not_ force myself on you, Anita. If you'd like to make love, you'll have to ask. Not under duress or because you feel obligated. Enthusiastic consent. To do otherwise is rape, and I have been raped too often not to know it's deleterious effects." 

The word sort of hung in the air between us, heavy and ugly. She'd told me already she'd been coerced into sleeping with people by Nikolaos. The tone of her voice and the look in those deep blue eyes hinted there'd been more violent encounters. Possibly several. She stared me down, daring me to say something flippant in response. 

I blinked first, taking another sip of water to wash away the taste of shame that coated my mouth.

"Then what do you want?"

Jeanette lifted one of the tartlets in one hand and offered it to me. It looked and smelled incredible. She'd been right. I hadn't eaten much today and, now that the danger was past, my appetite was catching up. 

"You eat, and I'll talk." 

"I don't need you spoon-feeding me." 

"You expressed concern for the dress. Even with the marks, I am faster than you are at the moment. I will catch anything before it can touch the dress. Eat." 

I sunk a little in my chair, feeling petulant, but took a bite. The creme hit my tongue and I almost moaned. It was delicious. The tartlet was small and gone in one bite. Jeanette smiled and offered me another. 

"As I said, whispers are beginning to circulate through the Kiss. How can I lead when I cannot manage my own human servant? I need to quash dissent quickly if I'm to remain in power. If there is a coup then Meng Die will be the one to rule after me. She is one of mine, perhaps more ambitious and unscrupulous than I am. You would not enjoy her reign."

"I'm not taking the rest of your marks," I said. 

"No, I hadn't assumed you would. Again, I'd like your consent going forward. What happened last month was a necessity." 

I wasn't sure I agreed. The first mark, maybe. But the second hadn't been necessary. Not to _my_ survival, anyway. 

"Then what?" 

"I need you to act as my human servant. Attend some public functions with me. Turn up at my businesses for a visit or two. Mingle with the Kiss and the members of the local wereanimal groups."

It was difficult to swallow the last tartlet as I processed that. 

"I'm not sure." 

Jeanette's face screwed up in sudden consternation and she stabbed at the cheesecake with more force than necessary. "Why not? It is a simple thing, ma petite. No more than a handful of nights out of the month. Is it such a high price to pay for the help you seek?" 

"No. But..." 

"But?" 

I squirmed. "You know what they'll think." 

"Non, I do not, mon trésor, but I am certain you'll elaborate." 

"You're....you." 

"Oui." 

"And you are very...much. You have much muchness." 

Jeanette let out a delighted laugh and offered me a bite of cheesecake. This feeding arrangement felt almost too intimate, especially when she kept looking at me like...like she was now. 

"Thank you, ma petite, but that's still not an explanation."

"You're hot, Jeanette. And you're clearly bisexual. I have a reputation to maintain and all those things you mentioned are....they could be construed as...girlfriend stuff."

"You are afraid you will be cast in the role of my lover?" 

"Yes." 

"I do not mind, but if it bothers you, bring a lover of your own. Make the distinction clear." 

Of course, she'd had to say that as I was taking a bite. I half-inhaled the piece of cheesecake. I came out of the coughing fit thirty seconds later and choked; 

"Who the fuck would I even bring?" 

"Rafael? He seems fond of you. The Rat King is my ally and he is known to be monogamous. If you'd like to avoid the perception that we are lovers, bring Rafael." 

I wasn't sure if I liked that idea much either. Rafael was strong, handsome, and more than enough to satisfy any straight woman but...I was still recovering from the incident with zombie Curtis. I wasn't ready to date yet. He deserved better than being my fake boyfriend. 

I didn't make a decision until after I'd polished off the cheesecake as well. Damn, the food was better than I'd remembered.

"Fine. I'll play along. Just make it crystal clear to everyone. We haven't fucked, we aren't fucking now, and we won't be fucking in the future. Am I clear?" 

"Very fucking clear," she said with a sharp-toothed smile. "So to speak."

"And you'll get what I've asked for?" 

"By the end of the week. The lecture is Friday evening, I believe. You and I will attend. I know an investigative journalist who can pass the dossier on Gaynor to you before then." 

"Good." 

I'd pushed out of my seat and was halfway to the door when she called to me. Rude of me to leave her with the bill? Yeah, a little, but this had been her idea, not mine. 

"May I ask one thing of you, ma petite?" 

By the time I turned around she was already there, too close for casual conversation. I took a step back on reflex. 

"What?" 

"Another kiss? For a favor owed, just as we agreed last time?" 

I considered it. She'd said she wouldn't force my hand. It was a request and I could say no. I really should say no. But...a favor owed could come in handy. 

In the four-inch heels she'd provided I was almost 5'7". Much taller than I was used to being. I barely had to reach up to touch her. It took no effort at all to slide my hands over her shoulders and lace my fingers behind her neck. I pulled her down with more vigor than I intended and our lips met. 

Soft. She was so damn soft and it always threw me. Her lips were plump, full, and parted invitingly. Feeling bold, I traced her bottom lip with my tongue. Her breath came hard and fast and she surrendered totally, letting me take the lead, consciously or unconsciously telling me I was in control. 

I'd expected her to taste like copper pennies, as she'd fed tonight. She tasted like Werther's hard candy. Did she keep a stash of them in her desk? They'd taste foul to her, so the consideration was actually...sweet. 

She let out a breathy, pleased sound when I backed her into the wall. My hands slid into her hair, tugging at the roots until she gave another eager sound. When I bit her bottom lip, she shuddered from head to toe. 

"Too much," she breathed. "No more, ma petite. Do not tease me." 

Was I being unfair? Probably. There was a part of me that wanted to torment her, the way she'd said. 

I released her and we stepped apart. Jeanette stared at me, the desire naked in her eyes. She was undone, completely vulnerable. I could have her wrapped around my finger if I wanted. If I was willing to go there. 

But I wasn't. 

"A favor," I reminded her, pulling the door open. 

"Yes. I'll remember. Goodnight, Anita." 

I swept out of the room, tossing my goodbye over my shoulder as I scurried away, the taste of caramel still coating my tongue.


	9. Chapter 9

"Dolph means well." 

I craned my neck so I could look at Zerbrowski. He was walking just behind me, escorting me toward the latest crime scene. The house was beautiful, well-kept, and utterly suburban normal. The crowd of squad cars and the yellow net of police tape looked out of place. 

My brows shot up and I let the anger bleed into both my eyes and my voice as I spoke. 

"Dolph is being a prick. I was only put in the position to be marked because I was working a case with RPIT. Why the fuck am I the one being punished?" 

Zebrowski ran a hand through his hair. It looked like Katie had finally put her foot down and forced him to get a haircut. 

"I believe you, Blake. Your alibi checked out and reports say you've largely avoided the Master of the City." 

Did Dolph have people tailing me? I hadn't spotted anyone, but that didn't mean they weren't there. I'd need to keep an eye out from now on. If he did have people watching me, I was in a bind. It would be difficult to make much headway in either mystery I was embroiled in without her help. As much as I hated it, money talked. Jeanette might be able to do more good by waving green than I could waving a gun. 

We'd reached the door and I finally pulled on the shoe covers and latex gloves Zerbrowski gave me at the start. I'd been told it was a messy scene. Messy enough Zerbrowski had warned me not to eat breakfast beforehand. That had my stomach clenched and ready for a barrel roll of nausea. My fingers rested lightly on the cool metal of the knob. It was clean, though the rest of the door was not. Rust-colored streaks ran the length of the white fiberglass door like a large hand had wiped itself clean on the surface. 

"Squeamish, Blake?" Zerbrowski teased from behind me. "I've got some of those sickness bags in the car-" 

"Shut the fuck up, Zebrowski," I muttered, twisting the knob. 

He was never going to let me forget about the time I'd thrown up during a case. Fair, I supposed, since it hadn't just been on site it had been on the corpse. The rest of them thought it was hysterical. I just remembered the reaming I'd gotten from the crime scene techs. The queasy sense of guilt always surfaced at times like these, thinking how easy it would have been for the family to lose their justice if the case had gone to court. Lawyers were unscrupulous bastards and my little fuck up might have been reason enough to omit evidence. 

In an unusually serendipitous turn of events, the killer had been a vampire-therian pair which had allowed for a Warrant of Execution. On the other hand, said therian servant had been a weregorilla. Even calling in Ted Forester (or Death as he was known to the vampires and a select few humans) we'd barely escaped alive.

You win some you lose some, I guess. 

He smiled cherubically, circling his head to mimic a halo. "Just an offer, Blake." 

I pushed the door open and stepped inside, Zerbrowski close on my heels. 

The smell hit me first. Thick, meaty, and oily, like the air in a butcher's shop. A smell you can taste, lingering at the back of your throat, prodding at your uvula. 

There's something most people don't know about blood. In small quantities, we don't even smell it. Humans have one of the smallest olfactory organs in the animal kingdom. While it's true we can distinguish a lot more than scientists originally believed, we're regularly outdone by our pets. Vampires only have a small advantage over us in that department. They'd started out just like us and were limited by biology, just the same as regular ol' humans. Infected wereanimals could smell more than regular humans or vampires but only in half-man or full beast form. 

Born wereanimals were another story. They tended to be far less aggressive and worked in tandem with the beast. It made a certain amount of sense. In order for the many strains of therianthropic retrovirus to spread, the hosts needed to attack others. Born shifters didn't need to attack. They bred. Often _too_ enthusiastically, because of naturally higher sex drive. I'd heard there was a push for contraceptives from the U.S. swanmanes. Their representative in Congress was being difficult. Wasn't that always the way?

So the fact that the smell infiltrated my nose and set up camp first thing said something about what I was about to see. Tempting to turn and walk away. Dolph didn't want me here, _I_ didn't want me here, and I already had a serious problem in the form of Harold Gaynor. But...Zerbrowski had gone to bat for me, giving me a chance to earn back Dolph's trust. Who was to say there wasn't something I could pick up that Tammy had missed? She could only read the energies of the room and make an educated guess. She'd never worked directly with the dead. At least, not the way I did. 

The stain on the far wall and the living room carpet had faded from what had no doubt been lurid red to a sullen brown. Blood doesn't stay candy-apple red for long. Eventually, the hemoglobin that makes blood red broke down into methemoglobin, turning darker. And much later on, it grows darker still, due to another compound called hemichrome. The color change allowed forensic scientists to date how long ago blood was spilled.

Thanks to Dolph's reluctance to put me on the case, this blood was no longer fresh. In fact, the shade had more in common with fecal matter than blood when you arrived this late to the party. It was only the smell, the rancid, meaty odor of it that told me what I was looking at. 

There was an off-white couch pressed to one wall, gold-patterned leaves and flowers snaking along the surface. At least, what little was left free of blood. There was a blotchy brown pattern on the cushions. It took me a few seconds to sort out the impression of a hand on the very edge of the cushion and then the rest of the shapes took on new and horrific meaning. 

The shape wasn't right for an adult human body. Just... _parts_ of one. A handprint here. The imprint of a forearm there, the side of a face, all too far away from each other to belong to a cohesive whole. The body had been a jigsaw when the cops had arrived. Dolph had said there hadn't been much of the parents left. One thing to know, quite another thing to see. 

I stepped from the tiled entryway with its welcome mat and tidy row of shoes by the door. A woman's shiny black flats, a man's dress shoe, and a pair of 6T sandals. Those shoes, more than the smell or the sight, had bile rising in my throat. The kid had been missing for days now. The depressing statistical likelihood was that we were looking for a body, not a baby. 

High school literature reared its ugly head and unhelpfully whispered Ernest Hemingway's hideously concise flash fiction into my ear. 

_For Sale: Baby Shoes, Never Worn._

My head was such a sunny place to be. 

The carpet squished under my tennis shoe when I stepped forward. What had appeared to be a dry rust stain on the carpet oozed droplets of brown liquid as I traversed it. 

I must have made a sound because Zerbrowski sounded serious when he spoke. 

"I really do have bags, Blake. No shame in trying to read the house from the outside." 

I gritted my teeth, swallowed a few times, and fixed the image of those shoes in my mind. Benjamin Reynolds. If there was a chance of finding him alive, I had to do this. I had to know what had slaughtered this family. 

"I'll be fine, Zerbrowski," I said. "Give me the tour."

Zerbrowski stepped around me and I followed, trying to pay attention to my surroundings instead of the squelching of congealed blood beneath my feet. I probably could have found my way to the relevant parts of the scene without him. Evidence markers were like arrows marking the spot of each act of carnage. The kitchen had clearly been the entry and exit point. Sliding glass doors led out to a fenced-in yard. Glass from the broken panes sparkled like diamonds in the early morning sunlight. A skylight let in more illumination, like a spotlight on the grisly scene. 

The other parent had tried to crawl their way toward the door. Bloody drag marks and handprints showed their excruciatingly slow attempt to flee. They'd almost made it too. The drag marks ended in another large pool of blood just shy of the door. The kitchen island's contents had spilled onto the floor near the stain. I could just make out the official seal of the State of Missouri and the print on the upper half of the page. 

Circuit Court of St. Louis County, Missouri

Isaiah Reynolds 

957 Maple Ridge Drive

Saint Louis, Missouri

RE: Adoption-

But that was as far as I could read. The rest of the text became an unreadable red-brown mush, blurred into illegibility by the sudden inundation of blood. It was crusted to the floor. I wasn't sure if it could be removed without being torn in two. 

I glanced up at Zerbrowski. "Was the mother having trouble conceiving?" 

He frowned. "I'm not sure, Anita. Why?" 

Excellent question. I was having a hard time putting my finger on why it might be important, but some second sense made me believe it was. 

"Maybe it's nothing. I can sense voodoo in the house. Tammy was right about that. Someone seriously powerful sent something after this family. But voodoo isn't all zombies and curses, the way people depict it. There are fertility rites as well. Adoption is difficult and expensive. Maybe she tried a more mystical route instead." 

Zerbrowski pulled a small notepad out of the breast pocket of his shirt and scrawled a note. 

"You think they pissed off the voodoo priest or priestess they sought out?" 

I shrugged. "Maybe. Maybe not. It's a place to start. A friend has put me in contact with Dominga Salvador. She's High Priestess for the state. If anyone is slinging around magic this dark, she'll have sensed it. I'll ask if someone's been looking to contact Maman Brigitte through a priest or priestess." 

"Maman Brigitte?" 

"A loa. Spirits in service to a higher power. There's debate about what that power is, but the point is you invoke a loa to do a specific task through veve, which acts as a beacon. Maman Brigitte is primarily a death loa, but she's also in charge of life, death, justice, motherhood, fertility, cemeteries, crosses, gravestones, women, souls of deceased relatives, obscenities, and passion." 

Zebrowski whistled. "A well-rounded woman." 

I smiled thinly. "Yeah. She's the loa my Grandma Flores calls upon most often. Her Catholic equivalent is Saint Brigid." 

Zerbrowski was giving me a strange look and I wasn't sure it was altogether friendly. People tended to be like that when I went into the specifics of Vodou. The good Christian folks I ran into tended to distrust anything that didn't slot firmly into their worldview. That things can be death and life. That gods, and spirits and the afterlife might not be so clear cut as they wanted to believe. 

"I'll tell Dolph," he said finally. 

"Good." 

We were silent for a long moment and it seemed as good a time as any to let my animating ability off its leash. The low-level tingle of magic I sensed in the air upon walking in was probably just the beginning. Picking up on ambient energy without trying meant there had been enough for the creature to leak its power into the air. 

Unleashing my ability felt like unclenching a tensed muscle. Most animators had to really concentrate to raise the dead. I had to concentrate not to. Bert said I was the worst case he'd ever seen. Others, like Manny, Marcie, and Matteo needed to raise the dead at least once a week to keep their power from animating animals. If I wasn't careful, I could bring people back looking as whole and healthy as they'd been in life. I'd had to have a heart-wrenching conversation with a woman whose stillborn I'd raised while visiting Manny in the hospital years back. 

With my senses open, the energy crackled like a downed powerline, filling the air with so much raw, destructive power it hurt to breathe. I sucked in a painful breath and held it, afraid that the effort of trying to inhale and exhale regularly would distract me from what I really needed to "see." 

My power met the psychic echo and traced over it, memorizing the contours. There was the impression of a shape by the door. Large. Seven feet tall at least, a patchwork of conflicting energies, many of which I recognized. Goat. Bull. Pig. Human. None of them formed a cohesive whole. Parts of a creature, much like the jumble of body parts that had lain on the couch. Those would now be in the morgue, being examined by a medical examiner. I'd need to pop in and see if any of them had been lopped off with a bone saw, just in case our animator had been harvesting. 

"It's a chimera." 

"What?" 

"It's a collection of body parts mashed together and animated. It was conceptualized by Mary Shelley. Frankenstein. She didn't have the chops to actually try it. She was barely an animator."

"So this thing is one-of-a-kind? We have no idea how to beat it?"

"Yeah." 

"Shit."

That about covered it. 

"I'll ask Dominga. I think she's the key to solving this. If anyone will know how to defeat a chimera, it's her." 

"Keep us posted, Blake. I want to find Benjamin Reynolds alive, if possible." 

"Me too." 

If we didn't, those little shoes were going to haunt me for the rest of my goddamn life.


	10. Chapter 10

I had one day of relative peace sandwiched between the two, very full days on my schedule. Monday had delivered more hell than average. Tuesday was at least par for the course for me if I excluded my visit to the crime scene. Bert was feeling more ornery than usual, probably spooked by what had happened with Gaynor and was blaming me for it. He'd booked me from dusk to dawn. Six corpses, back to back, in Lake Charles Park Cemetery. It wouldn't have ordinarily have exhausted me but, after all that had happened, I hadn't slept well. I'd only been saved by Sean, the cemetery guard, who kept coffee on hand. I preferred ground coffee beans to the instant stuff, but beggars can't be choosers. It got me home without falling asleep behind the wheel. 

So it wasn't any wonder I tried to smash my alarm clock when it chimed not more than an hour and a half later. Seven. Dear God, someone shoot me. Why had I...? 

Right. Manny had called me back with news Salvador wanted to meet at nine. It left me just enough time to scrub down, if not wash my hair, and throw on something halfway decent. Manny had promised coffee on the way to pick up Ronnie. I'd stalled out on getting my PI license and I was sure that if I'd had it, Dolph would have still insisted. He didn't trust me. I had to earn that back, even though I'd done nothing to purposefully lose it. 

I fished my Firestar from the bedside drawer. I didn't ordinarily leave my weapon behind and it usually served me well. Tommy wouldn't have left this apartment alive if I'd had my Browning. He'd lucked into catching me off-guard. With the way things had been going, I wasn't about to leave my weapon at home again. A pair of bootcut jeans went on and I situated the gun at the small of my back, held in place by a belly band. Not my favorite way to carry, but it was the one I was most likely to sneak past Dominga and her people. I wasn't anticipating problems, but I'd at least be capable of dealing with them if they arose. 

A sleeveless, flowing boho shirt went on over the jeans, concealing the Firestar and belly band alike. I felt better as the weight of the pistol snugged firmly against my back. Comforting, like the reassuring squeeze someone gives your hand. A deadly security blankie. I was sure a psychiatrist would have a field day if I listed my foibles. 

There was a soft knock at the door and a familiar voice called; "Anita?" 

My bunched muscles relaxed as Manny's muffled voice registered. I wasn't usually so jumpy. Maybe it had been the attack in my own house. When I'd arrived home from my date with Jeanette I'd swept the whole place before climbing into bed. I'd done it last night as well, thorough even though I was pretty much dead on my feet. Until I figured out how the sachet worked, I wasn't trusting the security of my own home. I certainly wasn't going to trust who might be at my front door until I checked through the peephole. 

I frowned a little. Date. I kept thinking of it as a date. But...it had been, hadn't it? A damn romantic one by most people's definition, if you took out some of the conversational topics. Dressed to the nines, a candlelit dinner, good food, a beautiful woman, and a knock-your-socks-off kiss to end the night. 

My lips tingled at the memory and I scrubbed at them. Not the time to be daydreaming about soft lips and their absurdly attractive owner. 

I crossed to the front door and fumbled with the locks for a moment or two. Manny was waiting on the other side of the door. My mentor always reminded me of my late Grandpa Flores. Like Grandpa Flores, Manny wasn't much taller than I was, around 5'5" without dress shoes. His dark, wavy hair showed silver and white at the temples. He and my grandfather could have traded notes on their thick. walrus mustaches. 

Manny smiled, lifting his hands to reveal an offering in each. A steaming to-go cup of coffee from one of the fancier places in town and a shake in the other. Breakfast. Manny knew that I had next to no appetite waking up and couldn't stomach much until the middle of my shifts. It was only exacerbated when I got up early. The chocolate protein shake was probably the only thing that would settle on a day like this. 

"Morning, Anita." 

"I think I love you," I said, stepping out into the hall, locking the door behind me. I snatched the coffee first. "I may have to fight Rosita for you, Manny." 

Manny's smile grew toothy. "She fights dirty. Watch your eyes." 

We both laughed. Manny was old enough to be my father and seemed to have informally adopted me, in his way. All three of his children referred to me as "mi Hermana" in mixed company, seeming to enjoy claiming me as their own.

Manny showed more paternal affection than my father ever had. Once he'd remarried, most of his time seemed to be split between Judith, Andria, and Josh. I'd always felt like an afterthought. Some unwanted remnant from his time with my mother. Yes, he was willing to shell out money for college but even that had felt like shipping me elsewhere so I wouldn't continue to upset the balance of his new life. I hadn't been home much since Curtis died and honestly? I thought he preferred it that way.

Some of the oppressive heat had waned during the time I'd slept. It was lightly misting. Not the rain we so desperately needed, but hey, it was something. Manny had parked his beat-up Camaro beside my Jeep. The poor thing always looked seconds away from breaking down and was in and out of auto shops so often it had earned a reputation for itself. Manny refused to buy new until he could gift the car to his middle child Mercedes. I was fairly sure, like her older sister Connie, she'd pass on the rusted-out piece of junk. 

Manny filled the silence as I downed first the coffee and then the protein shake. He talked about Tomas' exploits in Kindergarten, some of which made me smile. It seemed like he'd turn out wild just like his father. Hopefully, he'd mellow in his middle-age as Manny had. 

"So, Rosita called me the other day," I began when there was finally a lull in the conversation. 

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Manny tense. "Oh?" 

"She doesn't want you taking me to see Dominga."

Manny said nothing, but his lips pressed into a thin line. I continued on anyway, though the topic was clearly making him uncomfortable. 

"I know Dominga has helped the police before, so I'm not sure why she'd send an undead monster to slaughter a family. But I need to know if Rosita is right. Is the Señora evil, Manny? Or is that Rosita's jealousy talking?" 

"Anita, it's not my place..." 

"Bullshit, Manny. I need to know what I'm walking into. Is she bad news or not? I figured you'd want to talk now, instead of when Ronnie is in the car. After all, I don't have a badge." 

"She doesn't either," Manny grumbled. "She's a private investigator. The worst she can do is detain someone until police arrive." 

"The point still stands. Do you want to talk about it now or later, when there'll be more witnesses?" 

Manny got a tighter grip on the steering wheel and steered us into the next lane of traffic before he spoke. 

"She is capable of evil, yes." 

"That's not an answer." 

Manny's hands were shaking now. "I have sworn not to talk of that time to anyone. I don't break promises, Anita. Not even for you. All I can say is that the Señora is not...well. She woke screaming from a nightmare years ago and she has not been the same since. People are capable of great evil when they are frightened." 

We were silent the rest of the way to Ronnie's office. She'd recently moved to Gravois Park after vampire-run businesses like Iniquity, Paramour, Danse Macabre, and the Circus of the damned began upping the property value in the District. Her new office had once been a real-estate agency and looked it. One story, with cheap white siding and a green striped awning over her double doors. They were usually covered with shutters made of a steel-silver alloy. A smart precaution when your clientele tended to be asking you to investigate things with fangs, claws, and nasty tempers. 

Ronnie was waiting for us in the small parking lot, leaning against her car. She was hunched over, nursing a coffee. Hungover or exhausted? Both? She lifted her head to smile wanly at us as the Camaro pulled to a stop. 

"You know," she said conversationally as she slid into the back seat. "If you leave one of your bumpers in the parking lot I think it counts as littering." 

"It's been repaired," Manny said with a frown. 

I poorly hid a smile. "Thanks for joining us, Ronnie. I owe you." 

"You bet your ass you do. I need a caffeine IV stat." 

"We'll stop for brunch someplace and I'll buy you a whole pot." 

"Hallelujah." 

***

The Señora lived in one of the older neighborhoods in Saint Louis. A lot of Ranch-Style houses with sidings in various faded pastel shades. Most of them had tiny, postage stamp yards full of curling brown grass. I was hoping the early-morning drizzle of rain could perk the grass up. Failing that, save the wilting flowers in the window boxes in the nearby houses. 

The Señora's home stood out among its peers. Two stories tall, with whitewashed walls and red geraniums in the garden out front. The yard was roomy, with kids' toys scattered in the brittle grass. They probably belonged to the little girl pedaling hard up the street on her tricycle. 

There were chalked designs on the sidewalk before the house and leading up to the stone steps. Not veve. Not here, at any rate. But I did recognize some of the symbols from my lessons with Grandma Flores. She'd be apoplectic if she discovered I'd associated with a woman like Dominga Salvador. Grandma Flores had been a proponent of Santeria before discovering her gifts. Her teacher had practiced Vodu, so it was what she used and what she taught me. I wondered from time to time if she'd have encouraged a method like my co-worker, Matteo Valdez, used. He was a Christian Necromancer if there could be such a thing. He prayed to God to help him raise the dead. And, shockingly, it worked. 

Grandma Flores would have wanted that for me. She'd stressed the utmost importance of church growing up. Stay near God or lose your soul to black magic. Don't become a necromancer, mi nieta. Do not let the darkness eat you. 

I shivered, despite the relatively warm press of air all around us. The living dark. I'd only just come to realize Grandma Flores' words could have a literal application as well as the figurative one. I'd been having dreams of the vampire boogeyman long before I'd ever clapped eyes on the undead. I still wasn't sure what that said about me. 

"Homey," Ronnie muttered, coming to stand at my elbow. 

She was glancing down at the chalked symbols with some trepidation. Ronnie and I tended to be progressive but everyone had their line. Ronnie wasn't comfortable around voodoo as a rule. Don't ask me why. She rubbed elbows with every type of therian in the city, took cases for vampires and their detractors alike. Witches? No problem. But zombies, especially the grody sort that novice animators called from the graves, spooked her. She had that in common with Willie. 

Strange that she had me for a friend, though I found it strange that I'd found friends at all. 

"It's not used to call zombies," I said in an undertone, glancing down at the veve as well. We were approaching the porch. There was a young man lounging across the top, blocking the entrance with long legs. "Part of the worship, not used to call the loa." 

Ronnie's head dipped in a jerky little nod. "Right."

The young man came to his feet smoothly. Not quite quickly enough to keep from flashing the gun at us as he moved. My fingers itched. Carrying at the small of my back took more time. If I had to draw down, this guy had a few seconds' advantage. My eyes flicked to Manny, trying to gauge New Guy's threat potential. Maybe it was just my recent brush with Tommy that had me spooked. In my line of work, it was hard to tell. It's difficult to ease down when you've had your back to the wall one too many times. The Señora's neighborhood was considered safe, but it hadn't always been. She'd sent members of an invading street gang running for the hills, but not before a few of the local girls had gotten hurt. Those sorts of things stuck with you. I couldn't fault her for wanting a bodyguard. 

"Buenos Dias, Antonio," Manny said, spreading his arms wide like he might embrace the young man. "Look at how much you've grown! Last I time I visited you were only waist-high." 

Manny's smile and warm gesture wilted when Antonio didn't move to hug him. His dark eyes roved over Manny's body, taking in the padding he was beginning to put on in the middle, the new lines time had painted onto his face, and the healed scars that had been the ultimate reason he'd hung up the stake and hammer for good. There was scorn and a hint of wariness in that look. 

"Manuel." That one word was loaded with Arctic dislike. I placed a hand at the back of my hip, trying to be unobtrusive but close to my gun. I had a really bad feeling about this. 

Manny flinched away from the tone and dropped his gaze, the genial uncle facade fading entirely. The man before me looked older. Stooped and a little ashamed, like whatever he'd done to earn the dislike weighed on him.

"The Señora says I must let you and your..." His eyes finally moved "Friends into the house. Are you carrying, Manny?" 

"No, I'm not." 

It didn't mean Manny wasn't dangerous. The injuries made him slower. Too slow to hunt and kill vampires. Against human foes? He probably stood as much of a chance as Ronnie did. You don't forget the skills that can and have saved your life. 

Antonio scanned him again, searching for the subtle bulge of a gun or a knife sheath. When he found nothing he grunted and scooted over to one side of the porch to let us walk past him. He stopped Manny for a pat-down. He didn't even glance at Ronnie or I. Sexism, or was he afraid of a lawsuit if he did? Who knew? I was just happy to hold onto the Browning. 

I thought that would be it. We'd almost made it inside when Antonio made a soft, pouty face that I thought he meant to look attractive. He blew me a kiss and said something in Spanish that I could only assume was vulgar. Manny reacted badly, swiveling in mid-step to spear him with a look and sent back a rapid-fire response, telling him off. 

I was glad Manny was here, for many reasons. While I could handle Antonio myself, it was gratifying to hear Manny come to my defense. I'd had boys in high school pull the same shit, and there'd been almost no one to defend me at the time. Dad and Judith hadn't taken the complaints seriously until the quarterback of our high school football team had tried to rape me after a winning game. 

We'd only gone because Andria had become a cheerleader and would be present. I regularly ignored the games, reading underneath the bleachers instead. Clayton had known and he'd waited. Waited until the crowds had filtered away to their cars, counting on the fact I wouldn't do post-game ice cream with the family. By the time I'd spotted him, he was on me. I still remembered the terror, though I'd seen worse in the interim. 

Stillwater was too small a town to have its own school, so we were lumped in with the students at Benton High the next town over. Even so, the school didn't get a good budget and things were rarely replaced. The gravel had been ground to fine dust beneath the rickety old bleachers. He'd flipped up the skirt I'd been made to wear (so Andria and I could be complimentary, though I'd thought it was too cold.) What rocks remained pressed hard into the backs of my calves and thighs, sharp jabs that kept me grounded though the rest of me was trying to shut down, trying to ignore what was happening in the hopes it wouldn't. 

It had been a close thing. He'd had to release my hands to go for the front of his pants. It gave me just enough of a reprieve to seize the brick-like volume of _On the Origin of Monsters_ by Charles Darwin and swing it into the side of his head. That had gotten him off me and the punch that broke his nose ensured he didn't follow.

Antonio held up his hands in a gesture of surrender. The smirk hadn't faded. "Lo Siento, Manuel. S'just she looks a little pale to be your daughter. Is this Consuela or Mercedes?" 

The hair at the back of my neck prickled. I didn't like that Antonio knew the names of Manny's daughters. Manny sucked in a short, almost inaudible breath. He didn't like it either. 

"My name is Anita," I said, not bothering to hide my annoyance with him. 

"Manny says you're his daughter. That true, Anita?" 

"In spirit, if not by blood. Manny's done right by me and I'd be lucky to have him as a father."

Antonio wasn't looking at Manny, so didn't see his face soften at the praise. He shrugged and arranged himself so he was lounging on the front steps again. 

"Come back sometime, Anita." 

Yeah, I'd give that a hard pass. Maybe on Antonio's day off. 

Manny was tense and silent as we filed in. Ronnie snorted as we kicked off our shoes. The door led into a spacious living room with a handful of armchairs and a sofa, all of them with covers to keep the messes from cats and kiddies from ruining the upholstery. There was a young man at the wall piano, playing something classical. Bach or maybe Beethoven. He looked up as we entered. 

He was younger than me, maybe about Connie's age. Short, dark hair, big cinnamon-brown eyes, darkly tanned skin, and a decent amount of muscle on his tall frame. Unlike Antonio, he actually cracked a smile when Manny shuffled past. 

"Manuel!" 

Manny paused and then grinned back. "Ah, Max! I didn't know your mother had moved back." 

"Maximiliano," he corrected, in that sort of petulant tone kids got when they were trying to act older than they are. "And we've been in St. Louis for a year now. Artie got kicked out of school again. The Señora is schooling him from home while mom works." 

Manny's lips pursed but it didn't look like the news was all that surprising to him. 

"I'm sorry to hear that. And why must you call her the Señora, Max? She's Aunt Dominga to you." 

"She's the Señora. She deserves respect." 

"He insists," a woman's voice sighed from the doorway. 

Ronnie, Manny, and I turned at the same instant like we were all parts of a moving whole. Manny was in front, Ronnie at his elbow, with me like a short punctuation at the end of our line. I wondered if Dominga could even make me out behind all 5'9" of Ronnie. I leaned around her elbow to get my first look at Dominga Salvador.

She wasn't tall for a woman, even if she was taller than me. Within an inch of Manny's height, I'd say. She looked as if she could be Grandma Flores' cheerful older sister. They both possessed the sort of thinness that comes with age. Dominga pulled her wispy hair from her face so it settled in a bun at the nape of her neck. Grandma Flores' hair was more steel wool than cotton, but she'd get there eventually. The lines on Dominga's face were softer than my grandmother's. Laugh lines, instead of frown lines. She was balancing a little girl on one hip. 

Manny stood up a little straighter and emotion flickered across his face before he could lock the expression down. A faint sort of longing, first. The sort you see when long-distance couples talk about their significant other. The fact that Manny still had that look told me that he hadn't been casual with Dominga Salvador. He'd loved her. Heart-in-my-hands-I'm-yours kind of love. I'd only ever cared for one person that deeply, and he'd died. The blow had almost taken me with him. 

Fear came close on the heels of the longing, whipping the expression away so quickly it was difficult to believe I'd seen it in the first place. Then even that was gone, as Manny managed to shove everything down, giving her blank politeness instead. 

"Señora." Light and as filled with nothing like a rice cake. 

Dominga's smile tugged up the corner of her thin lips and set the laugh lines fanning into new and attractive shapes. A childhood part of me wanted to hug her. 

"Oh, Manuel. You're still sore about the last time? Or is it perhaps your little gordita still has ruffled feathers?" 

Manny bristled. "We're not here to talk about Rosita." 

Dominga's smile turned a little wan then. "Yes. Your friend, Anita Blake." 

She turned toward Ronnie, eyes a little cooler as she took Ronnie in. I myself had worn the look more than once. It really ought to work on a blonde by blonde basis but, of the ones I'd met, most had turned out to be bitches. Correlation doesn't equal causation, yeah, but for me, it's always been easier to expect the worst. 

"You're the consultant?"

Ronnie stared back, unimpressed, and sipped her coffee. 

"Actually, I'm the consultant's consultant. I'm Veronica Sims." She sidestepped so I'd be visible. " _This_ is Anita Blake." 

Dominga's gaze settled on me and the smile dropped off her face so quickly I expected to hear it hit the floor. She grew a shade paler beneath the golden-brown cast of her skin and her expression shuttered. Not before I caught sight of fear. 

I'd scared her. Why was I constantly scaring people I'd barely met? 

"I see," she said, flat and toneless. She set the little girl on her feet gently. "Go and find your sister, Isabel." 

"Abuela..." Isabel began, voice nasal and pleading. 

"Ahora vete, nieta." 

The little girl's shoulders slumped and she skulked toward the front door, glancing over her shoulder like she hoped Dominga would call her back. Eventually, she banged out into the yard and could be heard clambering over Antonio.

Face still curiously blank, she gestured toward a nearby doorway. A square of bright morning sunlight slanted onto the carpet just ahead of us. Her eyes still hadn't left my face. When I met them, a jolt went through me, like a tuning fork that had just been struck. I was incredibly aware of myself for just an instant. Every atom in my body shifted subtly, pulling like a magnet toward Dominga. 

And in that brief, out-of-body experience I sensed something too. Something nestled beneath my ribs, wedged between my lungs and my heart. A tiny black bead of...something. It was magic, no doubt, but of what flavor I couldn't say. It was like nothing I'd ever encountered before. How the hell had it gotten inside of me?

Dominga nodded after a moment, as though I'd just confirmed something to her.

"Why don't we move this conversation to the kitchen? I think we need to talk, Mija."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A quick note about Anita's family. I've pretty much accepted that this Anita's family will be a lot different than the one in canon. Grandma Blake is supposed to be the one who called her ugly and was cruel while she lived there. Grandma Flores was supposed to be uber-religious and scared for her soul, etc. Not the case in these fics.
> 
> I'm learning a lot more about the family while I'm working my way through Sucker Punch. Right now I'm at Ch 17 and the plot is mostly on track, which makes me happy and I think proves that Hamilton can still write a compelling mystery, she just doesn't want to, most of the time. The parts about her family just sort of tick me off, though. Judith has slowly morphed into a woman who Anita hated for coming in and replacing her mother, to a blatant racist over the course of the books. She's called a White Supremacist in Sucker Punch and her dad is debating whether or not to walk her down the aisle. To me, it reads as a way the author is trying to make her men the only people she can count on. Found family is a thing but...they're not really distinguishable from one another and they don't do things together except for have sex.
> 
> It doesn't read true to me. If her racism is that blatant her dad ought to call Judith on it. I'm not saying that couldn't happen in a family I just don't think it would, in this case. Why? Because as most sporkers harp on, Anita is pretty much White. I am also White, so I don't really believe I'm qualified to talk about the very fucked up way Hamilton's Anita interacts with race. It's not my lived experience. However, as Anita constantly harps on, she's very pale with dark hair and dark eyes. Certainly no one would be jabbing fingers and automatically slinging slurs. You know other groups that have dark curly hair and pale skin? The Irish, the Scots, the British, the French, the Germans, on and on. 
> 
> I understand just a little what it feels like to stand out from the rest of the family, though its sort of the opposite situation from Anita's. Everyone in my family (my very White family, primarily German/English/Irish) had very dark, wavy/curly hair and pale skin. I was the only blonde. Mine is only just now starting to fade to a darker color when I'm nearing thirty. The point is, genetics are strange and there's no reason at all why people would automatically assume Anita was "ethnic" as Hamilton puts it. She could have just had the genes for dark hair. She could have been adopted or from a different marriage. She could have dyed her hair as she seems like she was angsty enough to be a Goth for her young adult life. 
> 
> I sincerely doubt Judith is actually racist. It sounds to me when she says that Anita's mother was Mexican, she was trying not to hurt Anita's feelings by completely erasing her mother and her mother's heritage by claiming her as a daughter right off. Unfortunately, there's no way to win with Anita. 
> 
> I guess the point of this big rambly note is to say that I don't like the way the author has treated the family. I hope we never get a short story with them because I know it will be horrible and just a way for her to finally PWN Judith. I'm trying to give each of them a realistic role and not make them out to be racist/religious zealot cardboard cutouts. So divergence from canon will continue.


	11. Chapter 11

Dominga's kitchen had a nice lived-in feel. Off-white cabinets that were yellowing with age. Butcher's block counters with new appliances. A silver Kitchenaid Mixer and a small bread box beside it. Toasters, can openers, and whatnot. It reminded me of home, though Judith had transformed my mother's kitchen into something more modern with blue, silver, and stainless steel. I thought I liked Dominga's home better. It reminded me of the times my mother would can fruits and vegetables from her garden on summer afternoons. She let me make edible Playdough on a cookie sheet at the kitchen table. 

The floor was black and white checked tile like we were moving across a chessboard. For all I knew, we were. 

Dominga's table was round and well-worn. We all clustered around it like we were about to settle in for a meal. 

"Would you like something to drink?" Dominga asked, folding her thin fingers together on the tabletop. The smile she was giving Manny was as light and meaningless as the one he'd offered her. "I can bring in Fernanda." 

Manny flinched away from the name like she'd just thrown an elbow into his side. Another old lover, perhaps? 

"No, thank you." 

She flicked her gaze over to Ronnie, who shook her head and raised her coffee cup for emphasis. 

"I'm good." 

"Anita? Would you like something? I can have Fernanda make coffee." 

"Ah...no. Water is fine if you don't mind. And I can get it myself." 

Dominga had a deluxe fridge, one of those steel affairs that made water and ice. I'd accepted Manny's offer of coffee because caffeine was an absolute necessity if I wanted to be even slightly more animate than the undead I was here to speak to her about. Generally? If I drank coffee now it was iced. Something about receiving second-degree burns had put me off drinking it black and steaming.

"Nonsense. Fernanda, come here, please."

Manny flinched again, as though she'd shouted. I tried to catch his eyes, but he'd locked onto some pattern in the wood grain and wasn't going to look up unless I called his name. I wasn't sure what was going on here or if I should draw attention to his discomfort in front of his ex-lover. 

"It really isn't a bother, Señora Salvador."

"It is my house, and I am your host. Spurning my hospitality may hurt my feelings, Anita." 

A smile curled her thin lips but didn't fill her dark eyes. They were still fixed on me, wary, like she expected me to strike.

I couldn't put my finger on why, but the phrasing struck me as a little menacing. Was I projecting? Probably. Most of the things I hunted didn't lay in wait in my apartment, catching me unawares. I was probably reading into things more than was healthy for me. A pinch of paranoia can save your life but a pound of it will give you an early ulcer. 

Fernanda rounded the corner. Ronnie and I both swiveled in our seats to look at her while Manny kept his gaze glued to the tabletop. 

She was a beautiful Hispanic woman around my age, give or take a few months. She had hair almost as dark as mine, though hers had more wave than curl. It was difficult to tell the color of her eyes because, like Manny, she wasn't looking up at anyone or anything in particular. She looked a little sickly like she ought to have been sweating beneath the starched collar of her gray maid's uniform. 

Dominga smiled. "Bring Miss Blake a glass of water, Fernanda." 

The woman's jaw worked for a few seconds in a way that reminded me oddly of the Tin Woodsman. It clearly took her effort to speak. Shy around strangers? Or was she scared of the Señora? 

"Sí, Señora," she said at last.

Fernanda stepped into the room, and I immediately sensed something was...wrong. Her movements were stiff and careful. She walked like she had an injury she had to be mindful of, though I couldn't spy anything that might throw her stride off. But it was more than that. 

"Rápido, Fernanda."

Fernanda lurched forward like she'd been struck, and her movements, while still stiff, became swifter. It was that casual display of power that allowed me to put the pieces together. Anyone without abilities centered around the dead would never have been able to guess. 

"She's a zombie."

Ronnie twitched beside me and turned to stare, horrified, at Fernanda. She didn't look ready to scream yet. Fernanda looked remarkably human. Perfect, if you didn't have empathy with the dead.

I glanced back at the Señora for confirmation. Half of me hoped it wasn't true. I'd hate to clash with her right out of the gate. I'd meant what I said to Bert. I hadn't been spearheading the movement to get zombies out of service positions for attention. Using zombies as slave labor was wrong. 

Dominga's lips twitched up, and some of the cool wariness in her eyes thawed. 

"Well done, Mija. I honestly thought it would take physical touch to alert you. You are young to have so much power." 

"Manny knows she's a zombie, doesn't he? That's why he's not looking at her. No offense, but he's not as good as you or me when push comes to shove."

"Manuel knew her in life." 

A queasy feeling began to form in my gut as I processed that. Either she'd raised Fernanda to serve around the house knowing it would hurt Manny, which said something nasty about her as a person...or this zombie had been animate since Manny had last seen her. That had been years ago, from the sound of things.

Which meant that she wasn't just a powerful animator and a voodoo priestess. It meant she was a necromancer. One with a fucking scary amount of juice. 

If I was right about Dominga, and Jeanette was right about Dr. Hale and I, Saint Louis was just lousy with necromancers these days. There hadn't been one in the last thousand years and now there were potentially three all in the same geographical location. Call me crazy, but that didn't seem like a coincidence. 

"She can't be a zombie," Ronnie said quietly beside me, eyes tracking Fernanda as she retrieved a glass from one of the off-white cabinets. "She's too..." 

"Perfect. Way too perfect, if she's been around for any length of time." I fixed the Señora with a hard look. "Where's the Govi?" 

A Govi was a jar or bottle usually made out of red clay that could be used to store the immortal aspect of a human being. Their soul, essential spark, whatever you want to call it. It wasn't black magic in and of itself. Having one's soul in a Govi meant you could come back after death and interact with the people you'd loved. It could be a good thing, a cathartic thing. 

Animators could raise the dead and order them to answer questions or say goodbyes, but they weren't really in there. The human brain is a biological computer, and it can only spit out the answers it would have in life. Post-mortem its not capable of creativity. It is not capable of maintaining the functions it had in life, which was the reason we couldn't just send zombies home to be with their families. That spark went away. If Fernanda's hadn't, it meant her soul was inside her, thanks to a sort of modified Govi. 

It could be a good thing. But I really doubted it was in this case.

Dominga's smile uncurled like the petals of a poisonous flower, sincere and utterly sinister. 

"Ah, my little Manuel has taught you well." 

"He didn't have to teach me what a Govi was, Dominga. My Grandma Flores taught me all about them. She said that if I ever started calling souls from the water of the Ginen, she'd disown me."

Dominga's smile didn't fade, but it grew a touch wistful. "Ah, Chavela Flores. I wasn't aware she and Osvaldo had another after Carlos. I lost contact. She isn't exactly the social sort, is she?" 

It probably shouldn't have surprised me that she knew Grandma Flores. After all, she'd been the reigning High Priestess for the state since I was still using training wheels. Grandma Flores didn't practice much these days, but at one point, they had to have known each other. Still. I didn't like that she knew my grandmother. It made me wonder what else she knew about me. 

"No. She's not." 

Fernanda set the glass on the table in front of me. I couldn't help myself. I had to follow the line of her arm up to that beautiful, dead face, and when I did, my stomach bottomed out. 

She was in there. Even my most lifelike zombie had never held that spark. None of them had ever stared back, dark eyes swimming with tears, terror tightening the lines around their eyes. None of my zombies had ever pleaded with a look, the way Fernanda was. 

_Kill me. Please._

"Sweet Mother of God..." I breathed. 

This was wrong. Where was the Govi? I had to destroy it. Fernanda was suffering. What Dominga was doing to her, leading her around by the soul, was shy of torture. I could see all that in those dark, soulful eyes.

"Go," Dominga said, waving a dismissive hand when Fernanda let go of the glass. "I will call you if you're needed."

Fernanda took one step away from the table, already complying with the order. I caught her fine-boned wrist before she could retreat into the hall. 

The second my hand closed around the clammy skin of her wrist power flared. Cold energy that bit into my skin like frostbite. Dominga's power, infused into every cell of the zombie's body. It swarmed over me, attacking, trying to beat my energy back, but I wasn't a null or just a run of the mill psychic. I was an animator. Some said I was a necromancer. 

I dug my fingers into Fernanda's wrist, expecting her to make a soft pain sound. Her jaw worked, but no sound came out. The look in her eyes had become slightly frantic, and all the while, the invisible current of energy that ran over her skin continued to bite at me. 

Drawing upon my own power felt like donning a thick pair of gloves. The pain faded. And when the power pushed me next time, I pushed it back. 

"Stay, Fernanda."

Some of the tension eased out of Fernanda's body. She blinked rapidly, and the tears began to spill over. I wasn't entirely sure how she'd managed to produce them. Dead bodies dried up. Soft tissues and liquids were the first to go when putrefaction began. For her to be this real, this human, Dominga had to have been waiting at her deathbed with the Govi in hand. 

But even that didn't make sense, the more I thought about it. Only minutes after the heart stopped beating, the body began to eat itself in a process called autolysis. Oxygen-starved cells die and begin to leak toxic byproducts to the surrounding tissues, breaking the body down further. The really nasty parts of decomposition came later, but just minutes after the heart stops beating, the body started breaking down. 

Govi could only be used one year and one day after death had occurred. Dominga had to have caught Fernanda's soul and returned it to a fresh corpse, which she couldn't have done with a Govi. This was something new. Something wrong. 

"Please..." Fernanda whispered. "Please..."

Standing this close, with my power clutching the leash Dominga had on her, I could feel her desperation and a faint glimmer of hope. 

"I understand," I muttered. "Soon." 

More tears spilled down her waxen cheeks and she mouthed her thanks, unable to say more as Dominga's power rose like an eager tide, batting me with a viciousness that actually pushed me out of my chair. I landed on my ass, skidding across the checkered floor for a few dizzying seconds before I impacted one of the off-white cabinets. Metal clinked in the interior. 

When I focused my eyes again Fernanda was beating a hasty retreat, making for the back of the house where a baby had started wailing. Ronnie was half-out of her chair as well, and Manny was glancing between Dominga and I with a panicked look of realization. Manny had some clue of what had just happened. Bully for him. I didn't understand a goddamn thing. It shouldn't have been possible for me to interfere with Dominga's zombie. I could, theoretically, join with another animator to raise more dead. I could even snatch control of a zombie from a low-level practitioner if I had to.

Dominga wasn't a pushover. I had an inkling she was stronger than I could have ever dreamed. She controlled Fernanda's body with necromancy, and she had her soul hidden somewhere in the house. She should have an iron grip on Fernanda. So how had I managed to control Dominga's victim for even a second?

Dominga was on her feet, hands pressed flat to the table, her face gone pale with rage. The facade of friendly grandmother was gone. 

"So, Manuel," she said, her words cool and hard like she was chipping them off a block of ice. "You've tried to hide another of them from me. Foolish to bring her here and think that I wouldn't know."

Manny was clutching the underside of the table, one hand full of wood shavings from the effort it was taking him to remain seated. His nails bit at the wood now, like it was the only thing that would keep him from bolting out the front door. 

"I didn't know, Dominga. I swear it to you."

"Lies." 

"It is the truth. I didn't know Anita was capable of such a thing." 

Dominga gave a short, bitter laugh as I climbed to my feet. She was talking to Manny, but she never took her eyes off me. I didn't sit across from her but opted to lean against the cabinets. It was a better position to draw from anyway. 

If I shot Dominga Salvador in the head, would it free Fernanda? I wasn't sure how this new, modified version of the ritual worked. 

"You wouldn't have done what was necessary even if you'd known," she sneered. "So much harder to kill the White Goat when it has lived with your family. You had no qualms with our quest until Fernanda showed potential. Then you ran into the night like a child, screaming things were unfair. I raised her from the grave for you, Manuel. So you could still speak to her."

Ronnie had gone very pale. She educated herself on the places where mundane human evil met dark magic. She may not have understood the intricacies of Vodou, but she knew what a White Goat was. We both knew what Dominga was implying. 

"She was my cousin," Manny said, voice cracking. 

"Madre Oscura does not discriminate, Manuel. Any necromancer will do. You know this. You accepted that when all the others had to be hunted."

My skin ran cold and the hairs at the nape of my neck stood violently to attention. Madre Oscura. Marmee Noir. The Sweet Dark. The Mother of All Darkness. The vampire boogeyman. And apparently, Dominga's boogeyman too. Manny told me in the car she'd woken screaming from nightmares. Were they the same ones I'd faced since I'd come into my powers? 

"People are capable of great evil when they are frightened," Manny had said. I believed him. 

I also dimly recalled my conversation with Rosita and what I'd told her. "People are dead, and I'll shake hands with the devil himself if it saves more innocent lives."

I hadn't come all this way to be squeamish. Short of hurting or killing people, I'd climb into bed with Dominga long enough to get answers. I'd do everything I could to catch what had slaughtered the Reynolds family. 

"Chimera," I said loudly, dropping the word into the tense silence that hung between the Señora and Manny. "The police believe that someone has set a chimera on a local family. We need to know if anyone in the state has been raising the kind of power it would take to make and control one." 

At last, the cold fury drained out of Dominga's face. She slumped back into her chair, looking tired and shrunken, like the force of personality she'd commanded moments before couldn't fit into the small exterior. 

"Sí, querida niña. There were two. Now only the one, I suppose. They came to me asking for advice, charms, and gris-gris. I helped them to a point but balked at gris-gris. I could not condone what they wished to do with them, Mija." 

That was rich, coming from a woman who claimed to have hunted and killed people. Still, I needed the names more than I needed my moral high ground.

"Who were they?"

"John and Peter Burke."


	12. Chapter 12

It chaffed to leave Dominga's home without freeing Fernanda from her control. I couldn't be certain what would happen to the ensouled zombie if I riddled Dominga with bullets. Dominga's necromancy might be the only thing tethering her to earth, in which case Fernanda would be free to return to whatever afterlife she'd been bound for. On the other hand, the modified govi Dominga had constructed might keep her alive-ish and aware while her body crumbled to nothing. I couldn't do that to Fernanda until I knew for sure. 

I hadn't even had the chance to pull out the sachet that Tommy had dropped. With what I now knew about Dominga, it wasn't a stretch to think she'd made the sachet and was trying to have me killed. The question was, why, and what the hell did she have to do with either crime? 

Ultimately, I decided it'd be safer to let Manny make inquiries of the other priests and priestesses in Missouri. As a former High Priest, he'd still know most of the locals. He didn't practice much, except to raise the dead, but he'd make nice and ask questions if that's what it took to save lives. I didn't trust Dominga to speak to anyone when we traipsed out her front door.

Dominga had promised to fax over the relevant details of Shelley's journal. It was the original and there were no known copies, save for what she'd to the send police. A queasy part of my gut suspected she'd be heavily editing the passage to keep from implicating herself. Still, I couldn't see the motive for the Reynolds killings. No one was purely evil, no matter how hard filmmakers and fiction writers like to claim it. There's always a foible, a pathology, a switch that gets flipped. I needed to know what that switch was. 

None of us said a word or even looked at one another until we'd piled into the Camaro. Anything we said or did in front of Antonio would be reported back to the Señora. I could still hear a little girl shrieking and her baby brother wailing in the background as we left. 

The moment the doors clicked closed, the interior of the car seemed to drop ten degrees. Even though the air conditioning wouldn't really start blowing until we got on the highway, the chill coming off of Ronnie was nothing short of wintery. 

"So, Manuel," she said, cutting the words short. A glance in the rearview mirror revealed a stripe of her face, highlighting the blue-gray of her eyes. Was it my imagination, or were they more steely gray than blue now? "You're a murderer." 

Manny flinched away from the ice in her tone. She'd used his full name, divorcing herself from any friendly feelings she might have had for him. She didn't know him as well as I did, didn't have as much reason to feel betrayed or angry, and yet she was the one tearing into him. 

"Yes," Manny said quietly. "I was party to murder. It makes me at least partially culpable." 

Was it horrible that I felt some relief at that? Manny had been there, had watched Dominga kill, and had done nothing but at least he hadn't been the one wielding the knife. I hadn't realized how much of a difference that would make for me. 

"Why did you do it?" I asked quietly. 

Manny hunched forward over the steering wheel like it was his life's ambition to disappear into the steering column. He refused to meet my eyes but I could hear the beginning of tears in his voice. 

"Does it matter?" 

"No," Ronnie said at the same time I said, "Yes." 

Ronnie's knee came to jab me in the small of the back through the seat. I grimaced, resisting the urge to swivel around the chair and take a swipe at her for it. We did not need to start a catfight in Manny's car. 

"He's admitted he's killed people, Anita! It doesn't matter what he says, you can't let him get away with that, even if he is your mentor!" 

"It sure as shit matters," I snapped back. "Dominga has his cousin, Ronnie. She killed Fernanda herself in order to make a zombie that fresh. She's been keeping the soul inside and the body animated for...what now?" 

"Twenty years," Manny whispered. The air was starting to breeze through the car now, but I could still hear him. 

That really shouldn't have been possible. I knew that souls could stop or slow the putrefaction process but still...twenty years? She'd made a govi that could last that long? Or was her necromancy that much better than the rest of ours?

"Duress is a legal defense. Did you feel Fernanda was in danger? Was that why you went along with the Señora's plans?" 

"No." 

Not the answer I wanted to hear. Couldn't he have just lied to me? I _so_ didn't need this shit on top of everything else. 

Manny raised his hand for silence just as I opened my mouth to speak. 

"May I at least give you my reasons, Anita? Foolish as they were?" 

"There's no excuse for cold-blooded murder," Ronnie spat. 

I ignored her and Manny did too. 

"Go ahead, Manny. This better be damn good." 

Manny sucked in a shaking breath, fixed his eyes on the middle-distance, and began speaking in a near-monotone like he'd prepared and read this speech a hundred times. Maybe he had. Maybe this was the very story that he'd told Rosita to explain his time with the Señora.

"I told you that the Señora woke one evening from a nightmare and that she changed after that?" 

"Yes." 

"She was already somewhat...cruel. She likes to experiment, push the boundaries of her own abilities. She's accomplished things that I, and most other animators, could only dream of. But after the nightmare, she began to...hunt."

"Hunt what?" Ronnie asked. 

"Necromancers," I guessed. "Fernanda had the potential to be one, just like I do." 

"Yes." His voice cracked. "Yes, she was. And I swear I didn't know about your potential when we came. If I'd ever dreamed...Dios, Anita, you know you're as dear to me as my own blood. I'll never let that happen. Not again." 

"Why is she hunting necromancers?" I prompted gently before he could start apologizing or crying. Neither helped me puzzle out Dominga's motives. 

"It's an old vampire legend. Madre Oscura. Marmee Noir. The Mother of All Darkness. She's supposed to be the primordial night. I was young and besotted and I believed any lie she fed to me. She said we'd be protecting everyone. We couldn't give the Dark Mother a gateway into the world. We used human sacrifice to put their souls into govi." 

"So you're a serial murderer, then," Ronnie said, sounding vaguely sick. "Over a fucking fairy tale."

I glanced back at her. She was staring at the back of Manny's head like she was physically repulsed by his presence. It didn't seem quite fair to me. Would I have been sneering at Manny too if I hadn't seen her in my own dreams? If Jeanette and Nikolaos both revealed what I'd been dreaming of all this time? 

"Yes," he said quietly. 

"Does Dominga dream of an open grave with a desiccated corpse inside? Did she mention enormous saber-toothed cats?" 

Manny jerked the wheel so hard that we almost swerved into the next lane. He caught himself just before he could sideswipe a VW Bug. 

"Anita...no..." 

"I have them too, Manny. I'm not sure what that means, but I think we can't discount the possibility that she's out there." 

Ronnie scoffed. "You can't believe this." 

"I do. It doesn't make what Manny did right, but I think it's reckless to discount the possibility of a being older than recorded history being a real danger. I mean, they _just_ confirmed the existence of unicorns in the fossil record. It's hard to sift fact from fiction in this crazy world." 

"So you're going to give him a pass?" she demanded, incensed. "You're going to treat him like nothing happened?"

"No. It changes everything, Ronnie. But even if I wanted to turn Manny in, there's no chance in hell we can make it stick. They're twenty-year-old cold cases in different parts of Mexico." I paused and glanced at Manny. "It was just Mexico, right?" 

"Mexico, Guatemala, Hondouras, and El Salvador."

"Jesus," I muttered. "How many were there?" 

"Eight." 

Fuck. That meant that Manny had killed or helped kill more people than the Son of Sam. 

"Eight," Ronnie repeated dully. "Yeah, tell me how he's such a stellar guy, Anita. He's a fucking serial killer."

I turned so I could look at her while Manny turned right, taking a shortcut which ought to get us to Ronnie's office sooner. 

"The law isn't about what you know, it's about what you can prove. Do you think we can locate the right cases in four different countries, twenty years after the fact? I'm willing to bet some of the bodies were never found. Dominga seems too thorough for that." 

Ronnie evaluated me for a long time, stared at me with a mix of incredulity and hurt on her face. Then she blinked. Something glimmered wetly on one cheek before she turned her head. 

"Stop right here." 

"What?" 

"Let me out," she said more forcefully. "I'll walk." 

"Ronnie, it's too far-" I began. 

"Then I'll call a fucking Uber!" she snapped. "Let me out of this damn car or I'm going to throw myself out."

Manny and I exchanged a glance and the car began to slow, coming to a complete stop a few blocks up. Cars continued to zip by and Ronnie had to wait a moment to step out. She seized her purse and threw me one disdainful look over her shoulder when she exited. 

"You're not the person I thought you were, Anita." 

Then the door slammed shut. Manny pulled out into traffic and I was left staring at her rapidly receding shape in the side mirror. An ache began somewhere below my sternum. Damn it. This was the reason I didn't make friends. I didn't need other, mundane ways to get hurt. 

"I'm sorry," Manny mumbled. 

"Don't be sorry. Start talking. What does this mean, Manny? What's she going to do now? Why does she still have the govis?" 

"Dominga will kill and capture any necromancer she finds. She's hoping that when Madre Oscura finally wakes, she can consume the others and become the ultimate necromancer. It is the only chance any human has against the Dark Mother." 

"So she'll be looking to kill Dr. Hale and I very soon and turn our souls into a smoothie she can down before starting a fistfight with God?" 

"Yes, that's about it." 

"Well fuck."


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Mentions of suicide

Manny drove me home. The concentrated horror of the visit had made it feel longer than it really was. By the time we pulled into my building's parking lot the clock informed me it was 11:15. Not even lunchtime, damn. When had evil started taking the day shift? Most of the bad guys I faced were courteous enough to at least wait until the afternoon. 

"Will you be at work tonight?" 

It was an innocent enough question, I supposed but the way he said it sounded more like; "Will we still be friends after this is all over?" 

"I don't know, Manny," I muttered. "Probably. I need to talk to Bert. This case gets more complicated every time I look in on it. I need to see if Larry can take over at least one of my raisings tonight. I've got six again." 

Manny's wooly brows scrunched together. "Five is the max I can do and he doesn't book me solid every night of the week. I know you can do more but...Pushing you this much will result in fatigue, and you'll raise less in the future. It's not good business sense." 

I shrugged. "Bert's a petty motherfucker when he wants to be. We interviewed a client in his home and things didn't play out the way Bert wanted. I think he's punishing me for my part in it." 

Manny let the car idle in the spot beside mine, staring thoughtfully at the side of the building. We watched a couple pushing a stroller make their way past on the sidewalk before he spoke. 

"I only have three. I'll take two of yours. If Larry takes another, and I call in the favor Macie owes me. That only leaves one for you to raise." 

I glanced over at him, unsure. "Why would you do that for me?" 

Manny blinked a few times. I thought he was trying to blink the burn from his eyes. I did that a lot when I didn't want to cry. 

"I think I owe you at least that much. I've put you in terrible danger, Anita. Dominga won't rest now that she knows there is at least one necromancer nearby. And," he cleared his throat, voice gone too thick to speak the next words until he had. "You didn't call me a monster or a murderer. You're still here. That broke something in your friendship, and for that, I'll always be sorry. Let me take your extra raisings, Anita. I want to help." 

What could I say to that? I wouldn't turn my nose up if he and a few others would handle the raisable dead while I handled the very un-raisable Reynolds family. I needed the help. 

I wondered how long he'd been dreading the confrontation we'd just had. Had he really expected me to go running for the hills? I thought he'd known me better than that. He was probably right about Ronnie, though. I wasn't sure what had broken or how I could fix it, I just knew that I had to try. 

After this investigation was over. 

"Thank you, Manny. Call Mary before you go back to bed for the morning. When you know what raising I still have on my schedule, send me a text." 

Manny gave me a small salute. "Will do." 

I shut the Camaro's door firmly and he trundled off, black plumes of smoke curling from the tailpipe. Neither of us said goodbye. I think we both preferred it that way.

The August heat had dropped from a roiling boil to a light simmer in the wake of the small early-morning misting. Without more to follow, the heat would resume, hotter, and more hellish than ever before. I'd be praying for rain. Standing in the Missouri summer heat with my barely-healed burns was nothing short of torture. One stiff breeze and I could feel it like a tight, burning fist on my waist and leg. 

It was easier at night when the temperature tended to drop a little. Bert had overlooked some absences, his small heart growing a few sizes after he'd realized his greed had almost gotten me killed. I didn't expect that to continue, after the meeting with Gaynor. Some people were like that. Blaming everyone else when things went wrong, never opening their eyes until it was too late. 

I was halfway up the stairs to my apartment when my phone buzzed. _Lady Marmalade_ 's opening notes filled the stairwell. I could feel the heat creeping from my face up toward the roots of my hair as I tried to fish it from my pocket. Thank God most people were still at work at this hour. The ringtone was for anything Jeanette-related. I'd done it on a whim, to amuse myself, but I wasn't sure I wanted to explain it to my neighbors. 

"Hello?" 

For one brief, uncomfortable second hope filled me. Hope that somehow, it'd be her voice on the other end of the line, about to say something outrageous that would nonetheless brighten my day. I needed that hope to escape the thorny place I now found myself in. Dominga was almost certainly out to kill me. And Manny...hell, I didn't want to dwell on that clusterfuck any longer than necessary. I couldn't reconcile the loving husband and doting father with a man who'd held down Dominga's victims as they begged or screamed for mercy. I didn't know how he could live with himself, knowing there were eight souls trapped in Dominga's home, one of them belonging to his cousin. 

But of course, it wasn't Jeanette. At this hour, she'd be dead to the world, safely nestled in the daytime resting place of the Saint Louis Kiss. 

"Hello, Ms. Blake," a woman's voice purred from the other end of the line. 

Her voice always seemed to purr, as if, even in human form, her beast was peeking out. She had a pleasant contralto, and if she'd had a smoking habit, it'd probably have sounded mannish. Instead, it just made the recipient want a cigarette. All sex, all the time, from what I'd been able to tell from our limited interactions. 

"Hello, Cherry," I said patiently, waiting. 

She'd get to the point eventually. We'd spoken three times, but I already had the measure of her behavior, at least where I was concerned. The preamble was usually a sampler plate of salacious gossip or a heaping helping of double entendre. She didn't speak that way to normal clientele but apparently made an exception for me.

"So cold," she simpered. I could practically hear the pout that curled her full lips. "Aren't you happy to hear from me?" 

"I am, actually," I said, stopping at the next landing so that I could prop myself in the corner. Rude to stop dead in my tracks, blocking the stairwell. "Has Jeanette received the dossier?" 

"She has," Cherry purred again, her momentary sulk forgotten. "One of her contacts will meet you at Gallows Humor at dusk to go over the contents. The manager will be waiting for you at the back entrance. Miss Davenay expresses her condolences that she will be unable to attend. She has to deal with a hiccup at another of her businesses, but wishes to inform you she _will_ be available later on in the evening should you require her assistance."

"I'll keep that in mind. Thank you, Cherry." 

I almost felt her smile on the other end of the phone. 

"Tell me what you're wearing." 

"Good Lord. And here I thought we could have a civil conversation. Hasn't Jeanette shipped her staff off to a sexual harassment seminar yet?" 

Cherry laughed. It bubbled out of her like Brut champagne. Dry but pleasant. 

"I'm all alone in the office and I know you don't mind."

"I know you don't like girls. You told me you were dating the last time we had a would-be business call. Amongst other, extraneous information. You're just doing this to get under my skin."

"Ooh, extraneous. Talking to you is better than having a word of the day calendar. Bet you'd look adorable in a pair of glasses." 

"I'm hanging up now, Cherry. Have a good day." 

I hung up, cutting her off mid-laugh, fighting a smile. I wouldn't have ordinarily found the over the top teasing cute or funny but, depressingly, it was the most pleasant interaction I'd had all day. Cherry was out for a laugh, not to stick a knife in my back. If it was the best this day would get, I'd take it. 

The trip up the stairs and to my apartment was thankfully uneventful. I'd finished my sweep of the apartment when my text alert dinged. It was Manny.

_New Saint Marcus Cemetery, 10:00 pm. I have the two in Oakdale, Marcie will take the one in Bellefontaine, and Larry will take the one at the personal residence._

I couldn't help myself. 

_Personal residence?_

I knew it was theoretically possible to have yourself buried on your own property in Missouri but still...I'd never met anyone who'd done it. It was a lot of hassle. The burial ground couldn't exceed a certain size and had to be deeded in trust to the county commission. You had to file with the county clerk within two months. Vaults weren't legally required but were heartily encouraged to prevent the ground from sinking in above the casket. 

_Religious couple. They'd like their son raised so he can repent for his suicide, or at least, that's what Macie says. She passed on the job._

I'd bet she had. Macie Robbles was a staunch atheist, even though she could raise the dead from their graves. She rationalized it away as a rare but possible manifestation of energy manipulation. Scientists in the past hadn't known what caused thunderstorms either, she reasoned. One day the science would catch up to our ability as well. 

Whatever helped her sleep at night, I supposed. I was a firm believer that the ability was magical, mystical, metaphysical, what have you. Something greater than me provided the power. I didn't know if it was God, Yahweh, Allah, Para Brahman, or someone else entirely. I just knew there was something out there. 

I envied Macie her ability to pass on cases. She'd been on this job for seven years, versus my three. Seniority had its perks. If given the choice, I'd have passed on this case as well. Where mental health clashed with religious beliefs, things got nasty. My own personal beliefs would certainly clash with this couple's. 

On this one thing, I agreed with Macie. Mental illness was a disease like any other. People couldn't spot the cause of the pain, so they tended to ignore or downplay it. When I'd briefly required antidepressants after Curtis' death, my doctor had put things frankly. 

"It's no different than regulating any other health condition. No one would ask a diabetic to stop taking their insulin or to tell someone with a broken leg to run. Don't let anyone bully you into forgoing the care you need." 

I'd hated feeling weak and dependant but I'd taken the damn pills. That had made it easier to counsel Anne Burke about her options. So, in a way, I was glad I'd taken the doctor's advice. 

_Thank you, Manny. For everything._

_De Nada. See you sometime soon. Be safe._

I plugged the phone in and set it on the nightstand. The Browning and belly band were both tucked into the drawer. I didn't have the energy to find sleep clothes so I kicked off my pants and snuggled under my covers in just the flowing boho shirt. The clock read 11:30.

Dusk would be around eight-thirty. I'd set my alarm for seven. That'd give me close to a day's sleep before I needed to read the dossier, raise a zombie in Old Saint Marcus Cemetery, and track down any leads before Dominga sent something nasty to kill me. 

After a moment's hesitation, I drew the Browning from the drawer and tucked it and one hand under my pillow. Unsafe? You bet your ass. But after all that had happened in the last few days, I needed the comfort of knowing I could shoot whatever was coming for me, on the off chance it got past the werewolf stripper/bodyguard Jeanette had installed down the hall from me. 

Tucked in all nice and cozy with my deadly security blankie, I could finally close my eyes, clear my mind, and fall asleep.


	14. Chapter 14

Gallows Humor was a comedy club nestled in the District, which was the politically correct term for the thriving vampire subculture that had bloomed like an ugly bruise along the Riverfront. Most people called it Blood Square, which I preferred. Call a spade a spade. 

The exterior looked like a standard bar and grill. There'd be menus inside and a limited selection of craft beers on tap for the drinkers in the crowd. I heard it was a great place for couples to meet on first dates. It took some of the pressure off to know you wouldn't be talking for the majority of the time. If the show was good, you could laugh together. If not, there was still some fun to be had ripping a routine to shreds. 

Curtis and I had never gone. Improv just wasn't my thing. Drive-ins? Those were more my style. They were getting rarer these days, sad to say. Benton, the next town over from Stillwater, had one. I'd gone with Aunt Mattie or Grandma Blake a few times over the years. Curtis had taken me to watch the original Karate Kid for our first date after I'd mentioned that offhand. I'd appreciated the fact he hadn't assumed I'd like a romcom instead. 

Much like the crowds at Circus of the Damned, the admission line stretched around the block. Either the acts were hysterical or Jeanette was a marketing genius. I was putting my money on both. As per instructions, I crept through the narrow alley between the club and its neighbor until I could round the corner and come in the back way. I was met with another familiar face. 

Short, pale, with dark hair slicked back to show his pronounced widow's peak. He was dressed in purple suit pants and a matching blazer, left open over a zebra-patterned vest and a yellow dress shirt. He was so tacky it was appalling. And yet, I flashed him an almost involuntary smile. 

"Willie." 

Willie McCoy had been a small-time hustler inside the Kansas City circuit when he'd started his career. He'd made too many enemies to stay there long and had moved to Saint Louis to become a rat here. He'd figured becoming a vampire would make him hot shit and keep him safe from his enemies. It'd just made him the newest grunt to grace the Saint Louis Kiss. He'd always be someone's boot-licker. Now he was Jeanette's. And being Jeanette's boot-licker was superior to what he'd been before the regime change. 

Willie gave me a toothy smile in return, flashing his fangs when he saw me. It lit the cinnamon color of his eyes, giving them the sort of warmth the color suggested. I wasn't sure why he looked so damn pleased to see me. We hadn't been on speaking terms for a while. 

Some of Willie's enemies from the Saint Louis Kiss had crashed my wedding, slaughtering my fiance and all the guests. We'd had the service on the lawn instead of in the church as I'd have preferred, just so Curtis could have Willie as one of the guests. I'd softened toward Willie, just a little, since the events of last month. We weren't going to be bosom pals but I could tolerate him. On a night like tonight, I was even happy to see him. 

"'Nita. It's good to see you. How's the...erm...?" 

He glanced down at my legs, both encased in a pair of dark-wash jeans, tucked into boots. My weaponry, the wrist sheaths, gun, and knives were concealed by the overlarge black t-shirt that just read "merde." I'd bought it to offend Jeanette. 

"The burns are as healed as they're going to get," I said, some of the novel warmth draining away. It was bad enough Bert couldn't stop sneaking glances when I was at work. I didn't want the pity parade from Jeanette's underlings too. "Are we going in or what?" 

"Right. Come on. They're waiting at the table. Can I get ya something to eat? Jeanette said to offer." 

I scowled. Of course she had. She seemed to have an encyclopedic knowledge of my routines and personal failings. I almost told Willie to fuck off out of pure spite. I didn't, because shooting the messenger was petty bullshit. Secondly, I'd probably need the calories later in the evening. Raising zombies was just as taxing on the mind and body as a full day's work at any other profession. After I was through with the raising, I'd also need to track down Gaynor's contacts and try to uncover why he wanted this zombie raised so damn badly. 

"What's the special?"

"Sliders with a side of onion rings. Want me to tell the cook to make an order?" 

"Sure. A Coke too. Where am I supposed to meet the contact?"

"He's sitting at a table near the front and to the right side of the stage. Mo and Cherry are with him." 

I frowned. Mo Cameron, from what I'd gathered from the lengthy chats with Cherry, had been the 1930s version of Willie. Much better looking, in my biased opinion. Willie was almost as short as me and altogether too twitchy for me to date. I'd be constantly stressed, wondering what danger he sensed that I didn't. 

Mo had been a bootlegger for the Chicago outfit. He'd gotten himself publicly tortured and executed by Capone himself. Mo had slept with someone he shouldn't have and pissed off his big, bad criminal bosses. Every one of his joints had been blown all to hell and finally, gutshot, he'd been left to bleed to death. A certain brunette vampire had been bespelling a member of the gang at the time and chose to bring him over as a vampire. 

Part of me wondered if Jeanette had ever dated Mo. Then the other part reminded me that really wasn't any of my business.

"Thanks, Willie." 

We parted ways, Willie heading toward the small kitchen area tucked to the side of the bar while I made for the right of the stage. 

Well, stage didn't really cover it. Gallows Humor wasn't an exaggeration. The stage was an actual gallows, complete with the rickety steps up and a swinging rope casting a shadow behind every performer. The rope was made of harmless, gauzy fabric that wouldn't be able to hold someone's weight, but it was still a little morbid. 

The club was almost warmer than the air outside. I'd guess the building was almost at capacity. Every table was full of laughing, bright-eyed people. Families with teens or couples out on dates, mostly, but they all seemed to be having a good time. The sliders must have been delicious because most of the people I passed were on their second plate. 

Cherry had practically curled herself into Mo's lap by the time I arrived, bumping her head under his pale chin like a contented cat. I could see why. Even someone as jaded as me could admit that Mo was eye-candy. He honestly looked like Jeanette's older, better-fed brother. Thick black hair that was long enough to tie back into a tail. Gorgeous blue eyes, a pale face with nice bone structure, and a voice that, at least on stage at Iniquity, could coax fifties out of women's billfolds with ease. He was tall, broad, with a little muscle on him, and was the sort of guy I'd have gone for in high school. Granted, like most people, I'd been more hormones than brains in high school, so...

He wasn't wearing the trademark blue velvet suit he wore on stage to announce the acts at Iniquity. He looked more like the man he would have been before he was turned, wearing a Large charcoal gray overcoat, part of which draped over Cherry's shoulder. It allowed a glimpse at the waistcoat of the same color beneath. His hand smoothed over Cherry's shoulder like the absent stroking of a cat. 

This was the first time I'd met Cherry in person, but her look didn't disappoint. She looked like someone's goth wet dream. The faux leather skater skirt was pushed up to an almost indecent height by her positioning on Mo's lap. A large section of her very toned stomach was bared, showing off a navel piercing I knew had to be silver. Nothing else would last long on a therianthrope's body. Their healing factor was so great that the skin had a tendency to grow over piercings that weren't made of silver or silver alloy. 

Then there was the black lace bralette. Not sheer, thank God, but it was still treading the line. Cherry had completed the look with a studded collar around her throat and a pair of fishnet gloves on either hand. Her makeup was dramatic, silver smokey eye and heavy eyeliner that should have looked heavy-handed contrasted with her straight blonde bob. It didn't, which made me want to know exactly how she managed the trick. Beyond lipstick and a little eyeliner, I was clueless where makeup was concerned. 

Both sat up a little straighter as I approached, watching me with wary fascination. Good to know my reputation still preceded me. 

The third man at the table stayed hunched over a notebook, furiously scribbling notes. I recognized him well enough not to be surprised by that fact. 

Irving Griswold was a werewolf, so maybe it shouldn't have surprised me Jeanette would have connections to him. Her animal to call was wolves, or so the rumor mill said. Irving was short, with brown frizzy hair that ringed a pronounced bald spot. He looked like the last sort of person you'd suspect to have contracted lycanthropy. Of course, that was sort of like saying you never knew who had cancer. It was all internal and unless you had higher-than-average psychic abilities, you weren't likely to catch disease in anyone's aura, mystical or otherwise. 

"Hey, Irving," I said, letting some of the amusement trickle into my voice when he didn't look up for a solid minute and a half. 

Irving startled, head jerking up hard so he could lock eyes with me. He made one of those startled noises you get when you wake violently. He looked dazed like I'd pulled him out of a dream. Or maybe a nightmare. I didn't know what the article was about. 

Irving was an investigative journalist for the Saint Louis Post-Dispatch. He'd worked his ass off to graduate from puff pieces and ambulance-chasing. He was a good source of information and I wasn't about to undo all his hard work by outing him. His tenacity could be irritating at times but I tried not to hold that against him. If it bleeds, it reads, and most cases I worked were just oozing the stuff. 

"Anita!" he said brightly, eyes lighting up as he saw me, probably smelling a story. 

Like a dog with a bone, Irving. I'd probably find it cute if I weren't pressed for time. It was dusk at last and vampires weren't the only dead that could rise tonight. 

"I hear you have a file for me." 

He smirked and motioned to a folder wedged under one elbow. I wasn't sure how I'd missed it before, because it was as thick as a volume from the Encyclopedia Britannica. Jesus. Just what had Gaynor involved himself in? 

"Right here. It was emailed to me from New York by someone called Agent V. Apparently Jeanette has friends in high places. This is the FBI's official file. Lots of juicy stuff in here." 

The look I gave Irving made him wince and lift his hands in a pacifying gesture. 

"You can't print this, Irving. This is all off the record." 

Irving mimed zipping his lips closed. "I know that, Blake. I'm not idiotic enough to go against the Master of the City and even if I were, I can't print any of this. No corroborating evidence. If any of the alleged crimes in this file could be confirmed, he'd be in lockup right now." 

Well, that was disheartening. Nothing to convict on meant it'd be harder for me to nail Gaynor's ass to a wall. Much like the confrontation at his mansion, everything that had gone down was hearsay, nothing you could bring to court. Damn it. 

At least I could legally kill Tommy the next time he showed his face. He'd almost certainly contracted lycanthropy from Stephen and if a blood test could prove it I was home free. Until the next election cycle, Missouri still had varmint laws on the books. It wasn't right but, just this once, I'd let the injustice of it slide. Tony had tried to kill me first, after all. 

"Hand it over, then." 

Irving slid the folder around so it was facing me and pushed it across the table. Cherry had arranged herself so she was half-straddling one of Mo's legs. She looked like she was trying to eat his face. The slurping was going to get nauseating before long. I couldn't imagine a great deal of tongue was going to be comfortable when you were french kissing a vampire. The one time I'd done it, I'd been very careful. How did one handle that in the heat of the moment? 

I was saved from puzzling out the mechanics of vampire makeouts by the arrival of my food. I took an idle sip of the Coke as I flipped open Gaynor's file. My appetite withered to nothing as I read through the list of possible associations. His connections to the mob weren't surprising. Neither was the white-collar crime. Suspected embezzling, racketeering, fraud, bribery, and the like. The human trafficking and child sex tourism was surprising. And nauseating. No mystery where he'd planned to find his human sacrifice. 

I found myself praying to God someone could find something that stuck. The sick son of a bitch deserved to see the inside of a cell if half of these connections were legit. 

In the end my meal was divided up between Irving and Cherry, with the former taking the onion rings and the latter eating the sliders. I'd been raised to be frugal by Mom and Grandma Blake. You didn't let food go to waste if you could help it. I couldn't stomach anything but the Coke after what I'd just read. 

The least disturbing photos were of Gaynor and his romantic partners. I recognized Cecily in the more recent editions. One photo appeared to be taken a few years ago. At least, that was my guess. They were all seated in front of a restaurant that had closed due to financial difficulties. It was slated for demolition now. 

She was young and pretty. Long brown hair was drawn into a braid that left her face bare. Rosy cheeks that were plump, though the rest of her body was trim. She had dimples when she smiled. Like Gaynor, she was in a wheelchair. Someone had taken a candid shot while they'd been talking. Gaynor's hand rested possessively over hers. She looked at him like a woman in love. He looked at her like a man appraising a painting. Gaynor liked what he saw, but there was no affection in his eyes. 

The girl showed up in a few other photos, sharing the limelight with Cecily for a while before she disappeared completely. She hadn't looked as happy in those photos. Had she been phased out when Gaynor found Cecily or had something worse befallen her? 

"Who's the girl?" I asked, tapping the photo taken outside the restaurant.

It had taken me a minute to wring the horror from the words. I was gratified when they came out just as bland as I'd intended.

"They call her Wheelchair Wanda," Irving said, the light in his eyes dimming, an echo of disgust on his face. 

"You know her?" 

" _Of_ her. I have a friend who...visits her." 

"They're friends?" 

Irving barked a bitter laugh. "No. Not in the way you mean. She's a call girl." 

I glanced down at the photo in surprise. She didn't look like a prostitute. Then again, was there a specific look these days? Call girls and escorts weren't trolling the streets looking for Johns. You could buy almost any commodity on the internet these days, including sex. 

Cherry broke away from Mo with a sound very like a toilet plunger coming loose. She swiveled her torso around and managed to somehow lift her skirt to reveal that her thong matched the bralette. 

"How fucking dare you," she snapped. There was a hint of her leopard's snarl in the tone. Her eyes were shifting, sliding from pale human to vibrant leopard eyes. 

Irving bristled and I caught a hint of his beast as it rose. Hairs all over my body stood to attention as the two animal energies clashed. 

"What?" Irving asked, a hint of rasp in his voice. 

"How dare you judge? Do you have any idea how fucking hard it is to live with a disability, huh? How much it can limit your earning potential? The law says you're not supposed to discriminate, but everyone does. Doesn't matter if you've been an RN for years and are working on becoming a nurse practitioner. They'll still dump your ass. If Mo hadn't introduced me to Gabriel, I'd still be missing a leg. Sometimes prostitution is the only option for girls like me." 

"But you're not a prostitute." 

"No, I'm not, but I could have been. That woman deserves the same level of respect you'd give anyone else. She's doing what she can to support herself." 

Irving didn't say anything to contradict Cherry but he didn't stop glowering at her either. Deep unhappiness boiled off of both of them. 

My phone beeped. Nine. I'd officially overstayed my welcome.

"I need to get to work," I said, scooping up the folder. "Can I keep this?" 

"Can't stop you," Irving grumbled, not taking his eyes off of Cherry. 

I left out the back entrance. Irving and Cherry would settle things or they wouldn't. They were grown fucking adults and it wasn't my job to babysit them. I still felt uneasy when I shoved the folder into my glove compartment with my Browning. 

I peeled out of the parking lot, wondering why I cared so damn much about the monsters. And why they didn't seem quite so monstrous after all.


	15. Chapter 15

There were two cemeteries in Saint Louis called "Saint Marcus." The first, Old Saint Marcus, had been established in 1856. It had since become a park, complete with walking trails. Most of the old monuments still stood, ready to be admired by morning joggers. The move had been prompted by a series of vandalism cases in the 1960s. Over a thousand graves were displaced during the change and transferred to New Saint Marcus, located in the 6600 block of Gravois. 

We weren't far from Ronnie's building and I tried my best not to focus on that. I was here to raise Shannon Morse from her grave so that her family could say goodbye. 

They were huddled near the gates. I'd send the cemetery guard to fetch them when the deed was done. Most people had weak constitutions when it came to zombies. They didn't need to see this corpse until she'd gotten a healthy amount of chicken blood into her system. I didn't know the new guy, Rhys Dotson. He'd bragged about being an ex-Marine. One would think that would give him a strong stomach. We'd see soon enough. 

Shannon's headstone was a large slab of rose quartz. A black placard with upraised gold letters detailed her name, date of death, and gave a short, sweet blurb about her personality. Now I was almost wishing I'd taken the raising at the personal residence. It would at least have given me a convenient target on which to vent the pent up hurt of the last twenty-four hours. I could shout into the face of ignorant bigots all day long and not feel a lick of guilt. 

This? This hurt. 

Shannon Morse had reacted badly when she'd had a right rear-tire blowout. She'd suffered a rollover crash and died in the hospital a day later due to bleeding on the brain. The parallels to my own childhood loss were enough to make my chest ache. Her children had been a senior and sophomore in high school at the time. Maybe being able to fully understand what had happened to their mother made it easier for them. 

Nah. Death never got easier. Ignorance of death bred confusion and anger. Knowledge of it spawned despair. Pick your poison, but in the end, it'll still kill parts of you. 

The chicken's neck was a thin, meaty column in my hand. Drugged, all my sacrifices reminded me of those rubber chickens you saw at joke shops. Comical, almost unreal, until you felt its pulse drum against your skin and saw the subtle rise and fall of its chest. It seemed wrong to kill it while it was defenseless. 

I killed it anyway and thanked it silently for its sacrifice. Death for life, it would help a grieving family find closure. The blood gushed over my fingers in a warm rush, dripping onto the ground at my feet. I walked a circle, allowing the blood to run onto the ground until I had a line of solid red around the grave. Then I extended the blade. Six inches long, steel, and enchanted. It'd been damn expensive, but it was worth it. Better than any athame I'd been gifted over the years by well-meaning friends. 

"Shannon Morse," I said, letting my voice ring into the night, authoritative and unwavering.

I could feel Rhys watching me with horrified fascination. A glance up at his face revealed he was looking a little green. If I'd been in a better mood, I might have given him a ribbing for it. I was betting he'd taken the job for the fat paycheck. Long hours, but the pay was good, and you were almost never busy. The worst most guards dealt with were vandals. But you were paid the big bucks because you needed to be able to face the worst if the worst came. 

If Rhys couldn't hack a zombie raising, I might suggest he look into a career change. 

"Shannon Morse," I repeated, tapping the tip of my blade against the red quartz. "With steel, I call you from your grave.

I touched the headstone, smearing some of the spilled blood onto the quartz. "With blood, I call you from your grave. With power, I call you from your grave. Hear me and obey. Rise from your grave and speak with the living." 

I let go, let the power that remained clenched like a tense muscle inside of me relax, easing it into the ground and the corpse I could feel below. The earth began to move and minute later, a woman's head, neck, and shoulders pushed out of the grave. She was waxy, her cheeks sunken. She looked like a zombie, and would until she was able to consume blood. She was still leagues better than most corpses I'd seen raised by others. She didn't smell, for one. And she was all there, no bits missing or flaking off. 

The guard still looked like he'd be sick. I made an executive decision to spare my nose.

"Go find Mr. Morse and his children. It's time."

_Go, before you throw up,_ I added silently. 

It was a lie. Shannon Morse wasn't quite finished shaking the clods of earth loose from the pastel blue dress she'd been buried in. Her hair and pearls were caked with grave dirt and she wouldn't be able to speak to them until she'd slurped the remaining blood from the stump of the chicken's neck. I just wanted Rhys of the sensitive sensibilities away from me when he puked. 

He made the mistake of looking back when he was six yards away. He looked back in time to see Shannon Morse go at the sacrificed chicken like she was at a KFC. He puked. Thankfully, he was far enough away I couldn't smell it. 

By the time he returned, I'd been able to comb some of the dirt from the zombie's thick, dark hair, wipe her down with a handful of wet naps, and arrange her beside the grave. She was staring around at the cemetery with slight bemusement. She looked good and even had some color in her cheeks. The eyes were the only way to tell she wasn't truly in there. Not in the way Fernanda was, at any rate. 

"Am I dead?" she whispered as her family approached. 

I breathed a sigh of relief. I hated breaking the news to the zombies who rose without a clue. 

"Yes, Mrs. Morse, you are dead." 

"My poor children," she murmured. She turned her head toward me uncertainly, wide hazel eyes pleading. "May I go to them? I need to say goodbye." 

"Yes, you may." 

I didn't tell her that her husband had spent an obscene amount of money for just that reason. I let her join her family in the middle of the cemetery, where they set up a quilt and wicker basket. They were having a picnic. Cute. 

I'd have killed to have just one more picnic with my mom. Unfortunately, she'd been a low-level practitioner in life. No raisings for witches, mediums, psychics, clerics, or animators. We came back wrong. Who knew? Maybe we were wrong in life, too. Existential questions were beyond my pay grade. 

I waited by the front gate. Both Rhys and I pretended that he hadn't puked. I spent the time planning a confrontation with John Burke, the only living part of the duo who'd gone to Dominga for gris-gris. 

Rhys did a crossword puzzle. I planned a dozen ways to take Burke down if he tried anything unfortunate. 

Hey, it was a way to pass the time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a short chapter for now. My son's been sick, so I've mostly been doing work and I've been cuddling him the rest of the day. I've been trying to include a raising for a bit but couldn't find a place to fit it in during Iniquity. It's a little teensy bit filler-esque, but I hope you enjoy it anyway. :)


	16. Chapter 16

I'd been standing in front of John Burke's office for a minute and a half, listening for any sound from the interior. There'd been no response when I'd knocked the first time. When I'd pressed my ear to the door, I heard only the whir of an oscillating fan. I didn't understand how he could possibly be hot. Bert kept the interior of the office at a frosty 58 degrees Fahrenheit because he ran warm. It was hell on the rest of us, most of the time. Apparently Burke ran warm too. 

The night secretary, Craig, was on break when I'd come in, so I hadn't been able to confirm whether or not Burke was in the building. I'd spared a few minutes to scrub the dried blood from my fingers. It stuck in the cuticles, rust-colored reminders of Shannon Morse's raising. She'd been amicable enough when it was time to put her back in the grave. She'd even thanked me. It'd been a nice change. Most of the zombies I raised in her circumstances cried. It was always hard to watch. 

There'd been talk of raising Shannon again in May so she could watch her son graduate high school. I hoped I wasn't the animator assigned to the case. Dealing with the Morse family once had been difficult enough. I didn't want to put myself in their place. I'd already agonized over my mother's absence. I didn't want to think about what it might have been like to have her raised, just so she could be in my graduation pictures. 

I knocked on the door again, more convinced than ever that Burke wasn't in residence. For all I knew, he'd taken bereavement leave. If what Dominga said was true about the brothers, I wasn't sure he deserved it. 

I tried the knob and found it loose. His office was unlocked. Strange, if he'd left or hadn't come in at all. 

The question was, did I enter? I'd been planning to confront John Burke after I'd completed the paperwork for the Morse case. Every case had to be well-documented from start to finish. The ones in my office now were to certify the raising had been routine and that the deceased had been placed back in the grave. I'd send them to the family to be signed as well. Anything other than a routine raising would result in an incident report and a long talk with OSHA. 

I twisted the knob. I could always say I'd been looking for him if caught. Here for advice, just two animators talking shop. _Right._

Burke's office was dark, without even a desk lamp or a wall plug-in to illuminate the space. Though it grated on Bert, I left my desk lamp on when leaving for the evening. Easier on the cleaning staff that way. I'd grown up in a tiny town and knew my fair share of custodial workers. They tended to fade into the background of corporate life, easy to ignore. A lot of folks I'd encountered didn't even treat them like people who were just trying to earn a paycheck. 

In my opinion, if you were needlessly cruel to the people who cooked your food, scanned your groceries, or cleaned your offices, you were probably an irredeemable asshole. Period. 

I groped for the light switch and flicked it on. Fluorescent orange light filled the room. Bert continued to be a tightass and purchase the cheaper fluorescent than the energy-saving and nicer-looking LEDs. 

Burke's office had more personality than mine. There were many Terrance Osborne paintings on the wall, most of them of jazz festivals. There were a few pictures of a Mardi Gras celebration, and other, colorful reminders of his former home. It was clear he was still bursting with New Orleans pride. The room was splashed with color and texture. I bet the clients ate it up. He'd shared the space with Peter, so there'd been no reason to take the decor down when they traded shifts. 

I crossed the room cautiously, as though I might trip an alarm. Burke's presence was so thick in the room I could almost feel his breath on my neck. A large oak desk dominated most of the space. There were a few file cabinets in one corner, with potted firms resting on top so that it looked like they'd sprouted tufts of green hair. Two brown egg chairs sat opposite the desk. 

Rounding it, I found Burke's laptop folded closed and tucked to the side of the desk. Smart man. Any common thief raiding the place would look for items with the highest resale value first. There was a desk calendar aligned perfectly with his framed photos. Peter Burke and his family beamed out at me from the glass panels. 

Anne Burke looked radiantly happy in her wedding photos, arms slung around Peter's shoulders as they danced. I wondered if she was settled into the psychiatric ward now, or if they'd sent her home with orders to see an outpatient therapist.

The very last item on the desk was a large plastic bag. I was familiar with the style, having seen many of them in morgues over the years. These must be Peter Burke's effects. Wasn't it a little early for their release to the family? No suspects had been found, to my knowledge. Then again, it wasn't RPIT's jurisdiction. Peter Burke's case was plain vanilla homicide not preternatural. 

Or...had it been? 

The bag was partially open, allowing for a glimpse at the contents. Change had gathered at the bottom of the bag and glinted dully up at me. There was a movie ticket stub, a receipt from Slice of Life, the pizza parlor Anne had sent him to. The faded text listed two large stuffed crust cheese pizzas, breadsticks, and a two-liter of Coke. There was a sheaf of paper folded over, and, on top of it, a gris-gris.

It was a bracelet of red and black thread, strung with beads and human teeth. Bones dangled off it like a macabre charm bracelet. I'd seen something similar tied to man's arm a month ago. Zachary's gris-gris had been less complex, made of braided leather, and stained with the blood of his vampire kills. The molar nearest me had definitely belonged to a human being. If the shape hadn't convinced me, the silver amalgam filling would have. This had been made from human suffering. Possibly a human sacrifice. 

Jesus, Mary, and Joseph.

My breath caught and my heart started hammering. It appeared Dominga had lied about giving them the gris-gris or they'd found someone else to make one. Very carefully, I reached down to slide his top desk drawer open. Inside were a bundle of business cards and assorted office supplies. I plucked an unsharpened pencil from the top of the heap and shut the drawer again. Then I very carefully guided it inside the open bag, flipping up the sheaf of paper. I needed to know what it said. Maybe it was a church program, but I really doubted it. 

_A Treatise By M. W. Shelley_

_Part I_

_Wherein M. W. Shelley posits the creation of a creature hereby termed "Chimera" or "The Creature." Shelley..._

"Fuck," I muttered, withdrawing the pencil hastily. I'd seen enough.

Enough to know that Peter Burke had the power and resources to make a chimera. The problem? He'd been dead at the time of the attack. Even if he hadn't, I still couldn't puzzle out the reason the Reynolds family had been attacked. Peter Burke had no motive to kill a nice, suburban family. Unless it had been an experiment? Had he and John picked a house at random and set the monster on the inhabitants? Had the Reynolds' deaths been the result of an unlucky coin toss?

"What the fuck do you think you're doing, Blake?" 

My neck snapped up so fast I almost gave myself whiplash. The pencil clattered to the desktop and then rolled off, plinking off the floor. My fingers were on the snap of the Browning's holster when my wheeling eyes found him. 

There wasn't enough of John to touch either side of the door frame. Bert could have managed. John was slender. He was tall but hadn't quite filled his shoulders out. He was more track star than quarterback. He looked much as I'd seen him last, though he'd trimmed his mustache and goatee. His brows could have done with plucking. They looked like angry twin caterpillars, scrunched over his brow. 

I took a step back from the desk, trying to look as innocent as you please. Burke wasn't fooled. It probably didn't help I still had my hand on the Browning. Hard to ease down when you might be in the presence of a murderer. Peter Burke couldn't have been the Reynold family's killer, but John could be. With the goatee and his dark eyes glittering with malice, he certainly looked the part. 

"Looking for you," I lied easily. "You weren't answering but your door was unlocked. I thought I'd wait up." 

"Funny," he said, and his voice came out through gritted teeth. "I had the same idea. I was waiting in your office. Bert said you'd be back from the raising before I had my next appointment." 

"Did he now?" 

I was going to have to talk to Bert about allowing people into my office when I wasn't there. It seemed like a good place to stage an ambush. He was going to get me killed one of these days.

"Yes. I wanted to thank you for talking Annie into seeing a doctor. She's inpatient and will be for the next few days. They'll send her home with antidepressants soon." 

"That's great. I'm glad I could help." 

Ah, honesty at last. 

A muscle in his cheek jumped. His jaw was set so firmly I could have broken a knuckle trying to bruise it. He was pissed. My grip on the Browning tightened, my head filling with static, ready to slide into that calm place where I pulled the trigger. 

"I think I'll save the gratitude since you've invaded my privacy, Miss Blake."

I didn't even correct the use of "miss." Poking the big, angry bear isn't a good idea. If there was a chance I go past instead of through him, I'd take it. 

"Sorry. The bag was open. Didn't mean to be a snoop." 

Burke turned sideways, opening a gap I could slip through. He jabbed a finger at the hallway beyond. 

"Out, now. Before I report you to Bert." 

I didn't argue. I'd seen enough and this office was not the place to stage a showdown. John was powerful but not as powerful as I was. I was fairly sure I'd win a knock-down-drag-out fight, but he'd make me work for it. 

It sounded undignified to say I sprinted into the hall, past the lobby, and out into the heat of the August evening but...that was what I'd done. 

My side was beginning to burn and my hands were shaking. Damn Burke for spooking me. Damn me, for not getting pictures. I called Dolph anyway, told him what I'd seen. He said exactly what I'd feared. 

"I need more than just your word to get a warrant, Blake. The judges don't like to go after practitioners if they can help it. Looks discriminatory and the public is riding their asses about the Fletcher Dorsey case." 

Fletcher Dorsey had been a middle-aged man framed for an occult murder four years ago. He'd been put through a sham trial and executed. They'd drugged and immolated him. The worst part? It hadn't happened in some backwater town and the decision reached by a jury of bigoted peers. It had happened in D.C. The case had just been settled with the Supreme Court. Dorsey's widow was sitting on a half a billion now. 

"Damn it, Dolph, I don't have a snapshot!" I bit out. 

"Get one," was his only response before he hung up. 

I stuffed my phone into my pockets. I was still shaking. 

I'd seen the proof. There was a goddamn gris-gris in Burke's possession composed of human teeth. What more could he possibly need? If we waited, Burke would dispose of it and we'd never have our killer. 

Sometimes I just wanted to tell the U.S. legal system to kiss my ass.


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning: Mentions of stalking and rape.

A knock sounded at my front door.

My head snapped up, fingers curling around the Browning's grip without much thought. Instinctual, like breathing. Adrenaline spiked through my veins. It was midnight and an early night for me. Or was that morning? Working nights always fucked with my circadian rhythm. 

I'd been going over the file Irving had given me, paper and glossy photos fanning across my kitchen table as if having them all visible would allow me to connect the dots faster. No matter how hard I tried, I couldn't make the pieces match up. The file detailed all of Gaynor's dirty laundry. His alleged connections, his significant others, his freaking credit score, for God's sake. The DNA testing he'd done through 23andMe had an exact genetic breakdown. Overwhelmingly British and Irish, with a possible French ancestor. Point one percent Ashkenazi Jewish. There was no way the zombie he wanted raised was a relative. So why lie? What was so important that he'd send someone to kidnap me?

The why ceased to matter with that knock. Someone was at my door in the dead of night. Maybe I was overreacting. It could have been Mrs. Pringle or Stephen, my werewolf neighbor. But it could just as easily be another of Gaynor's bodyguards, here to have another go at the kidnapping plot. Better paranoid than dead. Browning in hand, I crept toward the door. A peek through the peephole didn't reveal the mysterious visitor. Maybe I'd imagined it? 

The knock came again. My visitor would probably find a way to knock the door down if they were very determined. I liked my door in one piece so I took a deep breath and unlocked the door. 

A woman stood on the other side. Tall, slender, and wearing a sage green wrap dress. The material looked soft. Cashmere maybe? She'd tied it to one side, letting the tails trail down the slight curve of her lip. It was a subtle trick that let the eyes follow the line down to her slender legs. She wore a pair of strappy heels that matched the dress. The ensemble was stylish and modest, with a neckline that barely strayed below her collarbones. 

Her sleek, dark hair had been curled into perfect ringlets and piled on top of her head in a messy updo. She blinked wide, midnight blue eyes at me, startled when she spied the Browning gripped tight in my hand. 

"I did not mean to startle you, ma petite." 

"Jeanette. Thank fucking Christ..." 

Her full lips twitched up at one corner. She'd abandoned her usual crimson tonight, going with a subtle coral shade instead. The entire look was more muted than I'd ever seen her wear. She looked like she belonged in the boardroom, not the bedroom. 

"I never thought to hear you express that sentiment at the sight of me, Anita. It's strangely...gratifying."

"Let's just say I was expecting a nasty reception." 

"Gaynor's men?" 

"They're one of a handful of people who could be after me. There's also Dominga Salvador, who'd like to kill me for allegedly being a necromancer. And John Burke, who's got a nebulous evil plan involving a chimera. Who knows? Maybe I've got a witch after me as well. I still haven't found the creator of Tommy's sachet yet." 

Jeanette had gone very pale and solemn. I saw a flicker of worry in the depths of her midnight eyes, like something moving beneath the waves of a stormy sea. Then it was gone and her eyes had gone empty. I imagined that she'd gotten very used to concealing her fear around the former Master of the City. Nikolaos had been a night hag, thriving on the fear of her followers. It was one of many reasons I was grateful she'd been killed.

"How do you go about accruing so many enemies, ma petite? It seems everywhere you go, you manage to find a fight." 

"I'm just that special," I said, giving her a false grin. It slipped off quickly, like a dress that didn't fit right. "What are you doing here?" 

It didn't surprise me that she had the address. She seemed to know everything there was to know about me. It made me a little uncomfortable if I was honest. Stalking wasn't cute and it often ended in violence or death. About seventy-six percent of women who were stalked by an intimate partner ended up killed by said partner. I wasn't sure if what Jeanette was doing qualified but it still scared me. It was more like a girl who had a creepy celebrity crush. The sort who'd break into the house to roll around on the bed or steal trinkets. 

Jeanette glanced down the long hall and pursed her lips. 

"I don't think you'll wish to speak of this in a public venue, Anita. It's of a sensitive nature. May I come in?" 

"No," I said immediately. 

I was so not issuing her an invitation into my home. I was certain I'd wake up at some point with her spooning me or worse. 

"It is important." 

"Then we can talk at the Circus or the Burgess-Price building. I am not letting you into my apartment." 

"We cannot afford to wait that long. I have made an appointment for one a.m." 

"An appointment to do what?" 

What was even open at this hour, besides a Denny's? I was pretty sure you didn't need a reservation. 

"You don't want me to say it aloud, ma petite. If you are truly too stubborn to allow me inside, then we should go to the car." 

"I'm not going anywhere with you until you tell me where the hell we're going." 

"Monogram On Washington. I've solicited the services of a prostitute who lives on the first floor." 

She'd been right. We really should have waited until we reached the car. My cheeks were beginning to burn and I got a firmer grip on the door with my free hand. 

"Why the fuck are we going to see a...a working girl, Jeanette?" 

"I read over Gaynor's file when it was faxed to my office. Wanda Conley's time is valuable and she is often booked. I paid to move our...session up. You wish to have this information in a timely manner, non?"

Wheelchair Wanda. The girl in the photos with Gaynor and Cecily. I'd been planning to track her down at some point, but it appeared Jeanette had already beaten me to the punch. 

"Oh...erm...why are you here?" 

"The transaction is in my name and I was not convinced you could procure a police escort in time. It cannot be rescheduled. Only you know what questions may be pertinent to your case. Are you willing to accompany me or not?"

Put that way, it was hard to argue. We were on a deadline and Wanda's information could prove invaluable. Maybe she was the puzzle piece that could shed a light on the whole gruesome picture. So why did I want to duck back into the apartment and slide under my covers? Embarrassment? It wasn't like me. Maybe it was the fact I was going with an attractive woman to meet a hooker who thought we'd be having a lesbian threesome. Yeah, that was probably it. 

I glanced down at myself. I was comparatively frumpy. Baggy sleep shorts and another of Josh's inappropriate but funny t-shirts. I wasn't sure what half the references meant but it made him smile when I sent photos of myself wearing them. This one read "Bitches love cannons."

"Erm...let me get dressed." 

I hastily slammed the door in her smirking face and made a beeline for my room. I set the Browning on the bed. What did one wear when soliciting a prostitute? Was there even an etiquette book for this sort of thing? Miss Manners hadn't covered this.

I ultimately decided to keep the shirt. No clothes would be coming off, after all. I swapped the shorts for a pair of jeans, dug my holster out of the nightstand and armed myself. The Browning went on first, The shirt was short-sleeved and couldn't conceal the wrist sheaths, so I secured short, two-inch blades in my waistband. I twisted my curls up into a bun and stuffed a pair of steel-silver alloy stakes into the mass of hair. If I needed more than my gun and blades to visit a prostitute, then things had really gone to shit. 

Once I had donned a pair of Nikes with their white swooshes, I was ready to go. I rejoined Jeanette in the hall, a bag slung over one shoulder, containing my wallet, just in case. I still felt shabby standing next to her but at least I was decent. 

We made our way to the car in absolute silence, with nothing but the whir of the air conditioner to fill it. When we stepped outside the chirp of crickets and the drone of cicadas filled it instead. The Coupe had been parked in a spot near my Jeep. I couldn't spy Joshua inside, so Jeanette must have driven herself here. It was a strange image. Jeanette didn't seem the sort to drive. Too déclassé. 

"No driver?"

"Joshua has college applications to fill out. He's hoping to start next year." 

I wasn't sure what to say to that. This wasn't the first time I'd been caught off guard by her seeming kindness. Phillip said she helped junkies get clean, and put them to work in her businesses when no one else gave them a fair shake. She'd introduced Joshua to Rafael, gave him a job, and was encouraging him to go to college. A vampire philanthropist? It made my head hurt. 

We climbed into the Coupe, Jeanette in the driver's seat. I couldn't resist petting the passenger seat discreetly when we were in motion. The car was as sleek and beautiful as its owner. I was pretty sure she laughed at me but it was drowned by the music blaring from her speakers. Eric Carmen. Huh. I'd been expecting classical. 

I listened to the Dirty Dancing soundtrack for several minutes while we cruised toward the highway. Finally, Jeanette broke the awkward silence between us.

"You seem uncomfortable, ma petite. Why?" 

"It's just...strange to think about. A disabled prostitute. A little shocking, don't you think?"

Jeanette snorted loud enough to be heard over the music. It made me look at her and reach for the dial, turning the music to a reasonable volume. 

"What?" I sounded defensive. I wasn't used to being snorted at. 

"Shocking? Hardly. Prostitutes in this day and age are paragons of health and beauty. I am over six hundred years old. I lived through widespread syphilis epidemics. I have seen missing limbs, pox scars, open wounds, and more. Addiction to opium and drink, prostitutes with teeth rotting, gums blackened. They still had customers. To men of a certain sort, all that mattered was a tight, warm place to stick their cock."

I stared at her in naked shock. My mouth might have been swinging in the breeze. I wasn't sure what surprised me more, the vulgarity or the venom in her voice. This topic bothered her. Why? 

There was one tidbit I could latch onto and latch onto it I did. 

"You were born in the 15th century. Was that the medieval era or the Renaissance?" 

She shrugged and her expression didn't clear. She was still angry with me. Guilt clenched my stomach into knots and irrational anger rose to trump it. I hadn't said anything _that_ insulting. She didn't have to take it so damn personally. 

"I don't know for certain and it's a moot point. It was all shit if you were poor." 

I hesitated before asking the next question. It might infuriate her. Disgust her enough to turn the car around or dump me at the nearest curb. But I had to ask. 

"Were you a prostitute?"

The silence in the car was so wintery I expected the windows to be glazed with frost. She was having trouble keeping her shields in place. I could feel the tightness in her chest, the shame, the self-loathing, the horror that she tried to suppress. She was quiet for so long I was sure I'd never get an answer. 

"Yes," she said finally. "And no." 

"What does that mean?" 

She blew out a breath. "I was a mistress. A kept woman. I sold myself to only one man at a time. I was a scullery maid serving a Lord. My father left after my youngest sister was born and our mother fell ill. I was the oldest and I had to put food on the table. I worked." 

"And the lord you served took...liberties?" I guessed. 

I stumbled over the phrase "took advantage." Too clean and sanitized. Jeanette said she'd been raped multiple times. This was probably the start. Did I want to hear this story? Probably not. But I'd asked the question. 

She shrugged again, as though it didn't matter. "I was fourteen. The word hebephile wouldn't be in use for many centuries to come. There was no recourse in those days. If a powerful man wanted you, he'd have you. I had a choice. I could be raped and turned out or consent and pay for food for my family on my back. You know what I chose." 

"That's awful," I muttered. "I...I'm sorry, Jeanette." 

Jeanette continued on as if she hadn't really heard me. Her eyes were far away, fixed on yesteryear, soft horror on her face. 

"I eventually grew too old for his tastes and he gifted me to another lord. Again, I had a choice. Nicolas was kinder to me than most. I did not love him but...he was gentle. He fancied himself in love with me and it drove his wife senseless with envy. We had two children together." 

"So you have grandchildren out there somewhere?" 

"No." 

That short denial was loaded with pain. My heart clenched in sudden horror at the implications. Fuck me. I hadn't meant to hurt her this much. The grief was twisting like an icy blade, just beneath her ribs. It was agony, even to this day. 

I found it hard to swallow. My throat felt thick. 

"I'm sorry." 

It was so woefully inadequate that I wanted to slap myself. Why had I pushed this? Her grief was choking. I had enough of my own to contend with. I didn't need hers as well. 

"Asher was my salvation. He spirited me away. Seduced me into Belle's court. And the rest, as they say, is history." 

She tried to inject a cheerful note into her voice. It fell flat. 

"Jeanette, I..." 

The car lurched to a sudden stop, cutting me off. We'd arrived. It seemed like the drive had taken no time at all. 

"We must depart, ma petite. Wanda is waiting." 

She exited, her long skirt swishing around her knees as she strode away, moving faster than human normal. I had to jog to keep up. She was right. Wanda could hold the answers that would unravel Gaynor's machinations. Jeanette had done me a favor and in return, I'd made her relieve a lifetime of misery and loss. 

What a great human servant I was turning out to be.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I referenced some comments made by a sporker called Dottie Smith. On her blog, she's sporked the books up to Incubus Dreams. As she said, Jean-Claude really shouldn't have been surprised by a disabled prostitute. He wouldn't have the same societal attitudes toward those sorts of things as a modern man.


	18. Chapter 18

Monogram On Washington was fairly upscale and the last place I'd expected to find a call girl or an escort. I supposed it didn't matter to the landlord so long as the rent was paid on time. 

A bribe got us past the nighttime security guard and even earned us directions toward Wanda's room. She lived on the first floor in a handicap-accessible apartment. 

Jeanette's heels rapped against the vinyl flooring, keeping up a brisk pace that forced me to jog after her. She'd slowed just enough to appear human but not enough to accommodate my shorter legs. I was even slower than I should have been, due to the barely healed burns from our last misadventure. 

"Uncle," I panted as we rounded a corner. 

Jeanette paused, craning her neck to look at me. She slowed even further when she saw that I'd braced myself against the wall, clutching my injured side. Everything hurt and I hadn't packed any pain medication. I really hoped Valentine was burning in hell for everything he'd done. It hurt so fucking much. 

"Anita..." 

Tears squeezed out of the corners of my eyes. Damn it. I didn't want to cry in front of a vampire. Especially not this vampire. Hadn't I already embarrassed myself enough? It still bothered me that I'd curled into her, seeking comfort after my near-fatal encounter with Aubrey. 

"Just slow down," I panted. "I don't like to run on the leg if I can help it." 

Jeanette circled back to my side, her earlier irritation apparently forgotten as she gazed down at me. She extended a tentative hand toward me, seeming resigned when I flinched away from her cool touch. 

"Are you hurting, ma petite?" 

"It's nothing I can't handle," I muttered. "Let's go. We're on a schedule." 

"You are in pain," she insisted stubbornly. "Let me help you. Belle Morte's bloodline has manifested many gifts. I believe I can use one to delay the pain for a time." 

"We don't have time, Jeanette." 

"It is still a quarter to one, ma petite, and we are very near her home. This will take five minutes or less. Let me help you." 

I curbed the impulse to say "fuck you." For one, it wasn't really warranted, just a knee-jerk to feeling indebted to her yet again. And secondly, she'd probably take it literally. Fucking me was on her to-do list. 

"You sure you don't have Vicodin or Hydrocodone somewhere on your person?" 

"And why would I? Drugs cannot affect a vampire unless taken through the bloodstream. Even then, the effects are not severe. I have never experimented with prescription drugs." 

I almost asked if she'd experimented with non-prescription drugs then thought better of it. She'd lived through the 1960s. She had to have fed on at least one person who'd been tripping balls. 

"There is a bathroom nearby. Allow me to help, Anita. Please. You don't have to prove anything to me." 

Wrong. There was everything to prove. That I wasn't her chess piece, her lover, or her woman on the inside. She'd used me to accomplish her goal knowing that I could be hurt or killed. She'd put everything I held dear in jeopardy. She was part of the reason that one side of my torso and one leg were a mass of burn scars. It was her fault and I wanted to hate her for it. 

But she was also a victim. Drowning people reach for anything to haul themselves from the water, sometimes killing their rescuers in the process. It didn't make it right. It didn't make her safe or trustworthy. Still, I understood it. 

"No. I won't let you into my head." 

"Blood and thunder, Anita! You are exhausted and in pain. I can feel that much without reaching into your mind. You are not thinking clearly and you will miss a crucial question or clue because you are too frightened of me to accept my help!" 

"I'm not frightened of you," I snapped immediately, hoping the rising anger would mask the lie. 

Her lovely face twisted into a sneer. "Do not try to deceive me. I see it on your face, hear it in the frenzied beat of your heart. It clings to your skin like bitter smoke. You are terrified of me. Of what you believe I will do to you." 

"How do I know you won't give me the third mark? Or the fourth? I cashed in my favor with Malcolm. He explained how the process works. A bite, a few words. Then I drink your blood, you say a few more words and bam, I'm locked in for life. We're already bound closer than I'd like. If you're killed there's a chance I could die as well. It's pretty much a certainty if you get more marks on me. I don't think you want a partner. You want a weapon you can swing at your enemies."

Her hands balled into fists at her side, small tremors running down her slim, pale arms. Her eyes were threatening to bleed to midnight flame. I wanted to dart my gaze around the room to be sure that no one was looking. The night guard might overlook a pair of rich twenty-somethings coming into the building after curfew. He wouldn't overlook us if Jeanette's pretense of humanity slipped away. 

"You have no idea what I want, ma petite." Her tone somehow made "ma petite" sound like "you bitch." 

My whole body ached in time with my heart. Every bit of raw, ugly emotion I'd been shoving down came rising to the surface. The fear I'd never be what I was before. I hadn't been on a real hunt in the last thirty days. All my kills had been morgue stakings. I didn't run with Ronnie anymore. I used the treadmill in the apartment's gym, going as far as I could as fast as I could stand. Then I'd inevitably limp up the stairs to take a Vicodin or douse myself in Lidocaine.

One vampire was all it took to end your life. Valentine hadn't managed to take it in a literal sense but if I never healed correctly, he might have still managed to kill my spirit. Death by a thousand cuts. Who was I if I could no longer be the Executioner? What was my purpose, if I wasn't killing monsters? My animating ability gave me an edge over the undead and a greater awareness of therianthropes. With this injury, I couldn't move fast for long periods of time without hurting myself. I'd never outrun or outfight the bad guys. If they got past the guns and disarmed me? I was fucked. 

"You're in pain," she said, the tension easing out of her. She was too dignified, always too dignified, to sag. Still, the air went out of her, the anger dissipating like mist on a baking summer day. "Let me help you." 

"It's your fault," I whispered. 

She went very still, that way only the dead can. Her face was perfectly empty, like a placid lake that would reflect anything. 

"I know," she said at last. "And I will apologize for it until the end of time. If I'd known, I'd have ended Valentine myself. Allow me to do penance for my many sins, Anita."

Her voice was tight, her eyes shining. She still wasn't moving, her face still blank, but for the eyes. It could be a ploy. She was a phenomenal actress. 

"You do not get to cry," I hissed from between clenched teeth. "Don't you dare cry. It's my body, my pain, my life. Stay out of my head. And for the most part? Stay out of my life." 

She blinked and her thick lashes brushed her cheeks. Delicate tears streamed down her face. Three or four, before she could stop them. She swiped at them quickly, trying to erase the evidence. 

"Someone must weep for you, ma petite. I know you will never allow yourself to do it." 

"I'm not going to bitch and moan. I'll move on. I'll get past it. No use wallowing in something I can't change."

"Emotion doesn't make you weak, Anita. It makes you human." 

"Like you'd know anything about that." 

My hands balled into fists, and my jaw was set so tightly my teeth hurt. She was prodding at the abraded bits of my head, probably searching for a weakness. She could go right to hell where she belonged. 

Jeanette flinched. Good. 

Her throat worked convulsively as she tried to swallow. Her voice was thick with the tears she hadn't shed when she spoke. 

"Don't ever think you are worthless, ma petite. It does not matter what you do, you will always mean a great deal to me." 

I actually spat. The globule settled on the vinyl floor next to her strappy shoe. 

Then I turned on my heel and strode down the hall away from her. I wasn't even sure where we were going, I just needed to get the hell away from her. Away from the echoing ache of her chest and the phantom tears running down my face.


	19. Chapter 19

There was a man leaning against the wall across from Wanda's apartment. He wasn't tall for a man, probably only 5'6" if I was using Jeanette as my measuring stick. 

What he lacked in height, he made up for in bulk. He was in good shape, with muscle straining the fabric of the gray t-shirt and black jacket he wore. It was functional muscle, not the pretty, sculpted stuff you saw at Universe Championships. It might look nice slathered in oil, but ultimately that kind of muscle was useless. Bulk up too much and you have less flexibility. 

He'd shaved himself bald, but I could see dark stubble if I peered closely enough. His eyes were gunmetal gray, pitiless and cold. They tracked us suspiciously as we approached and narrowed to slits when we paused in front of Room 104. I could make out a Star of David beneath his t-shirt and a taser tucked discreetly out of sight, hidden by the shadows of his jacket. An ordinary customer would probably have overlooked it but I noticed. He noticed me noticing it. 

"Who are you?" he asked, deep creases forming in his round face when he scowled at us. 

"I'm Anita Blake, and this is Jeanette Davenay. We've come here to see Wanda. Who the hell are you?" 

I eyed him critically. He didn't look like a pimp. Did call girls or escorts even have pimps? From what little I'd seen or heard about the practice, it seemed like the women had more autonomy. 

"Elijah Friedman but most people call me Eli. I'm going to need to see some ID." 

Out of all the mortifying scenarios I'd concocted on the way over, this hadn't been among them. Carded before I could see a call girl? When the fuck had I stepped into the Looking Glass? And how the hell did I find my way back to sanity?

Jeanette's hand dipped into the neckline of her cashmere dress, feeling around for something in the interior. Ah, breasts, nature's pockets. 

She eventually found what she was looking for and produced an ID. I got a brief glimpse at the picture, fighting the urge to spit all over again. Of course, her photo was perfect. She'd be photogenic in the midst of a bloody battle. 

Eli took the license from her and examined it. He went a little paler, his grip on the plastic card growing firmer. With vampires as legal citizens, there'd been changes made to all official government documentation. It varied from state to state, but in Missouri, you were required by law to fill out the new species category on your license. It was handily located just above the date of birth. Vampire, therianthrope, human, or other. Date of Birth, 03/17/1405. Fuck, she was old...

His gaze flicked very briefly up to Jeanette then back down and making that circuit every few seconds. I understood the feeling. It was abject stupidity to look her directly in the eye, but incredibly difficult to keep your eyes away from her stunning face. 

"It says on Ms. Conley's webpage that she doesn't do vamps. Get lost. No refunds." 

When Jeanette didn't budge, Eli tensed. He began to move toward the taser and then hesitated. Holy item or a concrete weapon? He was muscle, but he wasn't well-educated muscle. Anyone who'd passed even a high school biology course would have known electrocution wasn't going to slow a vampire down for long. You risked pissing it off, giving it more reasons to eat you than it had before. 

This was going south, fast. 

I stepped between the pair of them before Eli could slip a hand beneath his shirt and display the Star of David. Jeanette wasn't employing direct vampire wiles at the moment, so it wasn't likely to glow. But it could still hurt her if it made contact with her skin. 

"She's not the client. I am," I invented wildly. "An early birthday present. I like it when she watches." 

God. Had that just come out of my mouth? My face felt hot and I was sure the expression on it was comical. Jeanette could have sold the lie. With smoldering bedroom eyes, that alluring, touchable voice, the come-hither sway of her hips, she looked like the sort who'd enjoy a little voyeurism. Me? I looked like the sort who liked missionary position and eye-contact. I _was_ more adventurous than that but I'd never enjoy a crowd. 

Performance anxiety? Me? Say it ain't so. 

Jeanette snaked an arm around my waist, drawing me in tight to her body. I'd been right. The dress was soft. She smelled like a freshly-baked red velvet cupcake. So sugary-sweet she'd give you a toothache. It was her signature scent, sold at criminally high prices in retail stores. It shared the same name as her strip club. Iniquity. 

I wanted to shove her off. I was still pissed and I didn't want her touching me. But if I pushed her away, I'd be shooting my cover story in the foot. We needed past that door. This had to be convincing. 

Her long, cool fingers trailed along the line of my jaw, leaving goosebumps in their wake. She lifted my chin so that I could look her in the eye. She leaned in, and I thought she would kiss me again. Instead, she stopped just shy, letting her breath fan over my face as she spoke. Caramel. Had she been expecting more kisses? Damn presumptuous of her.

"Must you have another, ma petite?" 

"Yes. We agreed." 

She inclined her head just a fraction and our lips brushed very gently.

"Why must you vex me so, Anita?" 

My smile was coy and playful, two things I'd seldom had cause to feel. 

"I'm vexing. It's part of my charm. Would you love me any other way?" 

Her sigh wasn't exaggerated and I caught a hint of uncomfortably sincere feeling in her voice when she said; 

"Non. I love all of you, Anita Blake. Even when you are cruel."

Eli's nose wrinkled, face screwing up into an expression of supreme disgust as he watched our exchange. He'd assumed his position against the wall again and wouldn't meet either of our eyes. Crisis averted, for now. 

"Fucking coffin bait..." he muttered under his breath. 

Finally, a legitimate excuse to squirm out of Jeanette's arms. She let me go without a struggle, arms falling limply to her sides. There was still a hint of wistful desire in her eyes as she watched me back away. I rounded on Eli as soon as I was able, standing on tiptoe so I could get in his face. 

"What was that?" 

"Coffin bait," he repeated, baring his teeth in a half-snarl. "Fang fucker, blood whore, whatever you want to call it. It's unnatural and you'll burn in hell for it someday." 

"Glad you have standards, buddy. Bodyguarding for a prostitute is copacetic with the Big Guy, huh?"

"Wanda's a nice, human girl just trying to make the best of a bad situation. She'll give it up when she can. You don't have an excuse." 

He cast a look over at Jeanette and, try as he might, he couldn't resist giving her the full once over. Even the most hardened bigot couldn't deny that she was exquisite. A raven-haired Venus de Milo with a Mona Lisa smile. The interest sparked in his eyes and died a second later. Hatred trumped lust, in this case. Huh. He shuddered and rubbed at his arms. Every hair I could see was standing on end. 

"How can you stand to let her touch you?" he whispered. "She's dead. You're fucking a cold, soulless corpse." 

"She's quite warm after she's fed, actually," I corrected him mildly. 

Funny, how it always went this way. In the lobby, I'd been so furious I'd actually spat on the ground near her feet. Now, in the face of someone else's anger, it was easier to size up my own. Had I been a mite irrational? Probably. Wrong? Maybe a little. I had a right to be angry with her over what she'd done to me. 

Eli? Well, there really wasn't an excuse to hate someone for simply being. I hated vampires that killed, raped, tortured, and maimed. Until recently, those were all I'd seen. Willie, Mo, Malcolm, and Jeanette weren't good people. But they weren't _bad_ people either. They were full of quirks, foibles, and flaws that made them...

Human. 

"It's wrong." 

"Maybe," I said with a shrug. "But that's not up to you to decide, is it, Eli? Your only choice is whether or not we walk through that door. Jeanette is the owner of the local strip club Iniquity. I'd say that sometimes her clientele and Wanda's overlap. I'd really hate for rumors to start circling about her poor customer service." 

"Bitch," Eli snarled. 

"Every damn day. Are you going to let us through or not?"

He glanced between the pair of us and I could almost hear the gears crunching and grinding in his head. I was a little surprised steam wasn't blowing from his ears. Unbidden, the nursery rhyme popped into my head and I sang the last words very quietly under my breath.

"Tip me over and pour me out..."

Eli was too preoccupied to hear the irreverent little aside but, from the corner of my eye, I saw one side of Jeanette's mouth quirk up into an amused smile. 

In the end, Eli took a step away from the wall and warily circled us so he could reach the door. He'd dug his holy item from beneath the shirt and held it out toward us. Just the sight would have sent most vampires scurrying. For the youngest and least powerful, the mere presence of a holy item could debilitate them, even when it wasn't glowing with blue-white flame. It was a mark of just how powerful she was that she could look Eli dead in the eyes, even as he brandished a holy item at her. 

"I'm going to speak to Wanda. You two stay out here. If you try to break the door in, I'll shoot you. Got it?" 

I was about ninety percent sure he wasn't armed with anything but his taser. I was good at spotting gun placement. I knew when someone had the temperament to kill and Eli didn't register on that radar. He was muscle. A former bouncer, maybe. He'd fuck a person up if he had to but killing wasn't in his job description. 

"Got it." 

I let him have the pretty little illusion. Sometimes comforting lies are all we have, and I didn't want to make Eli twitchier than he already was. The night would go more smoothly if we played nice. 

He ducked inside Room 104 and slammed the door behind him. I heard the bolt slide into place a moment later. 

"What do we do if Wanda turns us away?" I asked. 

"You will have to wait for an opportunity to speak to her outside of her home. I could procure her phone number and any places she frequents for you." 

I made a face. "You know it's fantastically creepy when you go all Big Brother on me, right?"

She shrugged. "Information is power. Belle taught us to hoard secrets as a dragon hoards gold. To know a person's secret is to own a piece of their soul. She has stolen a great many souls. She taught us that beauty is nothing more than a tool to shape the world as you see fit." 

"You make her sound like a Machiavellian schemer."

Jeanette's smile was a touch bitter. "Machiavelli was one of her favorite pupils. People often misinterpret _The Prince_ , but many of the ideas stem from Belle. It is a shame he would not consent to the change. I believe he is the only person she may have considered her equal." 

"You're not her equal?" 

One of those almost touchable laughs bubbled out of her and she shook her head. 

"Non, ma petite. I am one of Belle's _failed_ experiments. Too compassionate. She says that my tender heart will be my undoing."

Compassionate? Tender-hearted? _Jeanette?_

Cold fear settled into my marrow. If Jeanette was the least calculating of Belle's court, I didn't want to meet the others. Especially not Belle Morte herself. 

I was still chewing on that chilling insight when the bolt slid back and the door opened. Eli was back, and he didn't look happy. 

"Come in," he said finally. "Wanda says she'll fuck the human girl while the vampire stays at a safe distance. I'll be in the room. Non-negotiable." 

I wondered if he'd already forgotten our names or if he thought it'd be dehumanizing if he didn't use them. 

"Fine," I said with a shrug. We were just here to talk anyway. "Alright with you, Jeanette?" 

"Oui. I will stay back."

The apartment's floor was more pale vinyl, but you'd never have known to look at it. Most of the floor was covered in patterned area rugs. Blues, teals, and silvers, mostly. Paired with the low lighting, soft vanilla scent in the air, it was soothing. Everything looked to be built for the consumer's comfort. The apartment had an open floor plan, allowing easy access to the bed. It was piled high with decorative pillows. More blue and teal. 

She was waiting for us, wheelchair parked for the moment in plain view of the door, like she was a showpiece and not a person. I wasn't exactly sure what I'd been expecting, really. A woman in a tight miniskirt and a ripped baby-doll tee? Maybe Hollywood really did rot your brain. 

Wanda Conley looked like she was ready for a night on the town. The sparkling green mini-dress would probably have hit a taller woman at mid-thigh but Wanda was my size. Maybe an inch or two shorter, which meant the hemline was closer to the knee. She wore opaque stockings, so the getup was almost modest. The dress was sleeveless, exposing smooth, well-muscled arms. She tanned a nice golden-brown. 

It reminded me a bit of Bert's boater's tan. It was such a strange time to think of him that I was tempted to laugh. Did Wanda make enough money to sail or was it just the result of a tanning regimen? Judging by the golden highlights in her gently waving hair, I'd say she tanned. Everything about Wanda was carefully constructed to appeal to the senses. She was just as pretty as her picture. A little thinner, maybe, but the makeup was still tasteful, her eyes still bright. 

They widened a fraction when they landed on Jeanette. 

"Oh my God. I thought the ID and credit card might be fake. But you're really Jeanette Davenay aren't you?"

Jeanette flashed her that Colgate-white, pageant-winning smile that she'd perfected for the camera. Too perfectly crafted to be real. I wasn't sure if the impish smiles she gave me were real either, but I liked them better. There was always laughter in her eyes and, even though it was often at my expense, it was still nice to see. 

"Oui, ma chérie."

Eli had placed himself like a well-muscled stumbling block between Jeanette and Wanda. There was no way in hell he'd be able to stop her if she decided Wanda looked like a nice, yummy snack, but I admired him for trying all the same. He craned his neck just a little so he could squint at her. 

"You know this bloodsucker?" 

"I'm surprised you don't," Wanda said, perfectly plucked brows bouncing up to touch the line of her bangs. "She's famous. She was a model with Belle Morte's line for decades. Then there were the TV shows, the movies, all the businesses she's started...I honestly don't understand why she's here. She could have damn near anyone for free." 

"You going to fuck her?" Eli demanded. "Because I'm not staying for that. You'll get what you deserve if you let her that close." 

"No. I'm not going to fuck her," Wanda said. 

There was a moment of hesitation though like she was wondering if making an exception might be worth it. She glanced up at Jeanette through her lashes, suddenly unsure. It made her look younger. Her eyes darted over to me, just for a moment, trying to do the math. Gorgeous, wealthy, and famous vampire. Short, frumpy woman who hadn't bothered to comb her hair or put on makeup. I'd be baffled too. 

"I don't understand," she admitted. "Why me? You're both hot enough you don't need to pay for sex." 

"You don't have to flatter us, Wanda. We're not here to sleep with you. I just need some questions answered." 

I reached into my wallet and drew out the laminated badge I used when doing consultancy work with the police. Even though I was a licensed executioner with the state of Missouri, I was still technically a civilian. The badge was supposed to get me into crime scenes that weren't local. RPIT worked cases throughout most of the state, not just in Saint Louis. Like the lights and sirens Dolph had issued for the car, it was to be used only when on a case. 

Dolph would blow a gasket if he knew I was using the badge to save my own ass. I tried to be pragmatic about it. I couldn't solve the Reynolds case if I was dead. Gaynor would almost certainly kill me when I was through raising the zombie of unknown origin. I'd seen too much and proven myself too dangerous to live. I needed Gaynor off my back before I could help anyone else. 

Wanda scooted back, spinning her wheels away from me almost unconsciously. 

"I'm not with the Vice squad," I said before she could begin to panic. "My name is Anita Blake and I'm a consultant with the police. I need to ask you some questions about Harold Gaynor." 

Her skin went ashy pale, all the blood draining away from her face. 

"I don't know a Harold Gaynor." 

"Yes, you do. He and I had an encounter and afterward, I went looking for answers. That led me to you." 

I attempted to fold myself gracefully into one of the armchairs across from her and failed utterly. Even brief contact with Jeanette had been enough to beat back the encroaching pain, but now that she was firmly sequestered in the kitchenette, it was creeping back in. My pants leg lifted above my ankle as I tried to arrange myself into a dignified pose that wouldn't hurt like hell. 

Wanda's eyes flicked to the patch of exposed flesh and grew even rounder. 

"God," she breathed. "Oh, God. I didn't know they'd started burning people."

Not what I'd been expecting her to say, but I'd run with it. It was more about Gaynor than I'd expected to learn from the anxious woman. 

I glanced back at Eli. "You do understand why I don't want to talk about this around him?" 

Her head bobbed, sending all those lovely gold and brown waves rippling. It was mesmerizing to watch. She really shouldn't discount herself. She was lovely. Lovely enough to nab Jeanette? Maybe not. But it wasn't really a fair comparison. Jeanette was the art you marveled at in the museum but knew you could never touch. Wanda was that beloved quilt you curled up under. Beautiful, despite its small imperfections, something you kept close and cherished. 

Someone ought to have been cherishing Wanda. Instead, she was here. Gaynor's fault, of course. 

"Eli, please go." 

He half-turned, hand still clasped tightly around the Star of David. He seemed unwilling to present his back to Jeanette, no matter how harmless she looked. She'd seated herself on a barstool near the island and was scooting a coaster along lazily with her thumb. 

"I'm not leaving you here with a vampire." 

"I'm an executioner, Eli," I said, pulling another laminated badge from my wallet. I held it up so he could see. Like my police consultancy badge, it had a hologram and other tells to prove it wasn't a fake. "If Jeanette so much as twitches in a hostile fashion, I'll shoot her. Then I'll take her head and heart. Hell, it'll even be easy cleanup, with all these rugs. Roll her up and deliver her to a crematorium." 

"You could do that? After all that stuff outside? You like her." 

"If she tries to hurt Wanda, I'll kill her. Period." I thought about it for a second then turned back to Wanda. "Are you a Christian?" 

"Yes," she said, brows scrunching together. "Though I haven't been to Sunday service in awhile. You know what they say about whores and churches."

I smiled faintly, reaching behind my neck to fumble with the necklace clasp. I wore at least one holy item on my person at all times. This one was a simple silver cross gifted to me by my late fiance when I'd started looking into animating work. Vampires came with the territory when you worked at Animators Inc. He'd tried to keep me safe. I hadn't been able to do the same in return. 

It came loose and the chain slithered into my waiting palm, bunching around the blocky cross. I offered it to her. 

"Just in case." 

"What about you?" 

"I have a Browning Hi-Power and the know-how to use it. I think I can handle myself." 

Wanda looked doubtful, but curled her small hand around the cross anyway, dismissing Eli again. He went grumbling and cursing, but he did leave. Apparently I'd been convincing. I didn't relax until the door clicked shut behind him. 

"So," I said slowly. "Tell me about Harold Gaynor."


	20. Chapter 20

"I need a drink," Wanda said, fiddling with one of the sequins on her dress. She wouldn't meet my eyes. "If you want me to talk about Harry, you'll need to get me a drink."

Harry. Not Harold or Gaynor. Not "that sick fucking bastard." He was still Harry in her head. What a mindfuck that must be. Some part of Wanda still loved her abuser. 

Wanda glanced up at me through her lashes, the way she'd done once before. Uncertainty made her features softer, made her seem more vulnerable than she really was. She looked like she needed hot chocolate or a hug. 

"You understand, don't you?" 

"Of course," I lied.

"I have red wine in the kitchen. Would you like a glass?" 

"I don't drink on the job, but thank you for the offer." 

Replying that I didn't drink at all would make me sound snobbish, as if I was somehow better than the lowly peons that did drink. I didn't necessarily think it was smart, especially not in this day and age, with the vampires and weres walking around with their freshly minted rights. Still, different strokes for different folks and Wanda had definitely earned the right to a drink. 

Her head bobbed as if that made perfect sense, spilling more golden-brown waves around her shoulders. I balled my fist on one thigh, resisting the urge to reach out and touch it. The scent of vanilla and brown sugar wafted to me on a breeze. I liked the shampoo and almost asked what brand she used. 

"Where in the kitchen, ma choupinette?" Jeanette inquired pleasantly. 

"Erm...top cabinet, furthest to the left." 

Jeanette nodded and sashayed out of sight. 

"Do you know what she called me?" Wanda asked in an undertone. 

"I think it means cutie pie. It's a step up. She basically calls me shorty. I'm probably lucky she doesn't use me as an armrest. Damn tall vampires..." 

Wanda pressed her fist against her mouth and looked like she was struggling not to laugh. I scowled, and that pushed her over the edge into a soft, breathless giggle. It eased some of the tight dread knotted in my stomach to hear her laugh. If she could manage to find anything funny after what Gaynor had done to her, and I didn't know even the half of it yet, maybe there was hope for the rest of us. 

"Would you like water then? Or coffee?" 

"Jeanette knows what I like," I said, a touch of resentment in my tone. It made me uneasy to think she could anticipate me so thoroughly when I knew so little about her. 

"Do you want anything to eat?" Wanda asked. "I usually order in. Eli and I aren't very good cooks. I have snacks though."

What I wanted was to get on with things. Eating a damn Ritz cracker wasn't going to help me understand Gaynor's motives. I was about to tell her so when my stomach let out a growl, protesting my lack of supper in a very audible fashion. 

Jeanette leaned her head around the short divider that kept the kitchen from being completely visible. She was staring at me, affronted, like I'd just issued a very loud belch. 

"Willie said you'd eaten at Gallows Humor," she said, eyes narrowing on me.

"I ordered food. I just didn't eat it. You try munching on an onion ring while reading that case file."

"You must eat! Mon Dieu, ma petite, one of these days you will simply collapse!"

She swept into the room in a dramatic flare of sage green skirts and streaming dark hair. Jeanette came to a halt at Wanda's elbow so suddenly that we both jumped. The vampire knelt so she'd be on Wanda's level as she offered the glass. Wanda took it gratefully and sipped while Jeanette leaned in further, lips brushing against the shell of her ear. 

Wanda's shoulders rolled in a noncommittal shrug. "Sure, if it makes you happy. You paid for my time, after all." 

"Merci."

Then Jeanette swept away again, leaving only her rich, sugary scent trailing in her wake. I stared at the point where she'd disappeared and then cast a questioning look at Wanda. 

"What does she want?" 

"She's going to see what she can make with the ingredients I have. She's pretty adamant that you should eat." 

Only one thing stopped me from marching into the kitchen and dragging the vampire out by the ear. We had a ticking clock. A quarter of the hour-long session had already been spent arguing with Eli. I couldn't spend another twenty arguing with Jeanette and, chances were, there wasn't enough in the kitchen to make a meal anyway. 

"Gaynor," I prompted gently. "You said he didn't burn people when you were with him. What _did_ he do back then?" 

Wanda shuddered and seemed to shrink in on herself, some of her bravado fading. I hated Gaynor more than I ever had in that moment. No one ought to have enough power over you to steal the joy from your life with just the mere mention of their name. 

"Nothing, at first," she said softly, gripping the metal armrests of the chair. "He's always sweet at the beginning. You know." 

"I don't, really. My encounter wasn't the same as yours. I'm an animator and Gaynor wants me to raise a zombie for him." 

Wanda's lips twitched. "An animator, a vampire hunter, and a police consultant? Is there anything you can't do?" 

"I can't bake a pie," I said with a shrug. 

The twitching at the corner of her mouth gave way to a real smile. "Was that an _Annie Get Your Gun_ reference?" 

"I watched a lot of musicals with my mom. That and Shirley Temple movies. We used to spend the summers like that, waiting for the clothes to dry on the line or the cookie timer to go off."

Wanda's smile turned wistful. "That sounds nice." 

"It was. I'm grateful I had her." I bit off the tail end of the sentence. The 'as long as I did,' conclusion. We weren't here to talk about my mother. "Do you have anyone I can call when we're done talking? It might be safer to leave Saint Louis if Gaynor is on the prowl." 

Wanda shook her head, hiding her eyes behind a spill of hair. She might have been crying. I couldn't tell. 

"No. It was just my mom and me for a long time. She died during my freshman year of college. I'd never felt more lonely. Then..." she sniffled and trailed off. 

"Harold Gaynor wheeled into your life?" I guessed. 

She nodded. "He was donating money to the preternatural sciences department and held a lecture about the importance of learning more about the inhuman members of our community. He said we'd find we're more similar than we like to believe. I thought it was great that he was so liberal. We talked after his lecture and he asked me out. We dated long-distance until he could find a place in Saint Louis. He convinced me to drop out and move in with him. And...God help me, I did."

"That was when the abuse started?" 

"A few months after that. At first, it was just sex. I didn't like all of his kinks, but I thought I could put up with them, you know? He loved my legs. I'd never had someone who liked them as much as he did. He'd wax them, moisturize them, massage them, even paint my toenails. I thought, 'So what if he has a thing for feet? He's a nice guy.'" 

She choked out a soft, bitter laugh. We both looked up briefly when Jeanette sat down at the kitchen island with a bundle of ingredients, a cutting board, and a knife. Wanda kept looking at Jeanette. It seemed that easier than meeting my eyes. 

"Harry can still feel his legs, even if he can't move them much. The car accident that killed my dad paralyzed me. I can't feel a thing. Or..." she swallowed convulsively. "I couldn't feel most things he did to them. At first." 

"You got feeling back?" 

"No. He...he used to cut them up. When Cecily entered the picture she'd flay them too. She's good at doing that." 

"Cecily, his fiance?" 

Wanda gave a jerky nod. "He met her through one of his contacts. By the time I found out he was involved in human trafficking rings, I was trapped. Bruno and Tommy watched me every second that I wasn't in Harry's line of sight. He's obsessed with that world. He caters to sick fetishes. Torture, kids, animal abuse, human experimentation. He started a show with me and Cecily near the end. He'd allow people to bid on what was done to my legs. Some people complained that I wasn't screaming. He brought in a vampire dressed in purple..he had scars all over his face. I saw them when he took off his mask." 

"Valentine. Jesus."

Gaynor had once had connections to Valentine. What had that sick son of a bitch done to Wanda? He hadn't raped her, I was fairly sure. She wasn't his preferred victim type. He'd been willing to hand me off to another vampire to be raped, but he hadn't done it himself, even when he'd had every opportunity. Valentine had always been into little boys. 

She glanced over at me in surprise. "You know him?"

"I killed him last month. He was the one who burned my leg." 

That news seemed to bolster her. She sat up a little straighter and finally met my gaze solidly. 

"Thank you." 

"I'm sorry, but I need to know what he did to you, Wanda. I need to know what Gaynor is after and what part he wants me to play in it." 

"Valentine made me feel things. He made me look into his eyes and he'd roll me so I could feel everything. I even felt things they didn't tell him to do. I screamed so hard that some of my vocal cords hemorrhaged. It went on for weeks. Eventually, I managed to call Eli. He snuck in and started a grease fire in the kitchen and got me out. He watches over me and makes sure that none of my clients are sickos who want to hurt me all over again." 

"Why do you think Gaynor wants a zombie raised?" 

"For his shows, probably. I'm sure there's a market for zombie porn. Zombies have to follow orders right? They'd be perfect sex slaves. He was talking to a priestess who said she could keep them from rotting. She wanted something from him in return. She needed to speak to a man named Ziying about some sort of Ancient Chinese treasure." 

God, that was it. That was the connection. Dominga Salvador needed the treasure, not Gaynor. For what, I still didn't know. Something secret that would protect her from the big, bad Madre Oscura? 

"Thank you so much, Wanda," I said, reaching forward to seize her hand. "This has been a huge help." 

What I'd do with the information was anyone's guess. I still didn't have enough to take to the cops. I doubted Wanda would be willing to testify in court and the tapes of her torture were probably difficult to procure. It would be her word against Gaynor's and, unfortunately, the word of a sex worker meant very little to a jury. Prejudiced bastards. 

"You know," she said, eyes trailing back to Jeanette. "I don't think I've seen anyone passive-aggressively chop opinions before. She really seems to care about you, huh?" 

"Yeah," I muttered. 

I still wasn't sure how I felt about that. Which was the real Jeanette? The manipulative sex kitten or the fussing mother hen? 

Hell if I knew.


	21. Chapter 21

One piece of the puzzle down, a million to go. I wasn't sure how or why Peter and John Burke had been involved. Could it have been a coincidence that they'd procured a gris-gris before Peter's death? Possible, but unlikely. 

I hadn't liked Peter much in life. He'd been a habitual workaholic, a miser, and a pencil-pushing fussbudget. John was a little better, but he was an insecure motherfucker. He was making noises about leaving the firm if he kept getting passed over by clients. It wasn't really my fault that he wasn't able to raise as much or as well as me. That could have been the reason for the gris-gris. With a boost from Dominga's necromancy, he'd be as powerful as I was. Possibly more powerful. 

Did I believe that John might have done this to win a metaphysical dick-measuring contest? Yeah, I might. It was Peter's involvement that confused the hell out of me. Where did he fit into this? Peter had reported me for turning my paperwork in late. Had he procured the gris-gris for his brother? Did familial affection trump his desire to play by the rules? 

I just didn't know. 

The Reynolds case had ground to a halt. It'd been a week and there were no new murders. I'd have expected another attack by now. Why was the mysterious animator holding back? Did Dominga have a hand in that as well? She had Mary Shelley's full text. She'd know how to stitch together a chimera. But how did the Reynolds play into it? That was the part that I just couldn't figure out. They'd been a nice, normal family looking into adopting a kid. They hadn't even been looking into any mystical routes. Manny had asked every priest and priestess he knew in the area. None of them had heard of the Reynolds.

Benjamin was still missing. His little shoes played pivotal roles in my nightmares these days. Was he still out there, scared or hurt? Or was his small corpse moldering someplace? It was the sort of speculation that could drive you to drink. 

I'd be meeting with Dolph at midnight tonight if all went well. RPIT had been expanding its staff to work all hours. We needed more hands on deck if we were going to be responsible for solving all supernatural crimes in the state. I just had one thing to do before I could go over the facts of the case with him. 

I took a deep shuddering breath and stepped into the employee entrance of the Circus of the Damned. 

I'd only been inside once before and hadn't gotten a chance to appreciate the full scope of the place. There was a real carnival midway, complete with rides, food trucks, and vendors. The nearest was selling t-shirts emblazoned with a fanged clown decal and the words; "Circus of the Damned, where all your nightmares come true."

It was a Friday night, and the Circus was packed. The weekend was upon us, and families were out in force. There were plenty of teens and twenty-somethings out as well, testing the waters with their dates. The air buzzed with excitement and a touch of fear. The line stretched out the door of the main entrance. Screams of terror and delight sounded from every direction. 

Up ahead, I could spy two lanky blonde women being swarmed. They were conjoined vampire twins, the only known pair in existence. Camille and Naomi Holland. They'd played leading roles in the Hammer Horror film _Sideshow_ in the late seventies and had brief cameos in _Cirque de Sang_ and _Bloody Big Top_. All three had been filmed in the Circus of the Damned and most of the actors were still alive. Or rather, undead. I had to admit, if I'd had the time and patience to fight the crowd, I'd have liked to get an autograph too. 

But there was no time. Dr. Hale's lecture was in an hour and in the congested Friday night traffic we'd be lucky if we made it on time. I tapped the face of my watch impatiently. If we were late because Jeanette was styling her hair...

A light tap on my shoulder made me spin, hand flinching toward my holstered Browning. The energy at my back was inhuman, buzzing with confident power. It was warm enough to let me know I was dealing with a therianthrope. I backed up several steps, almost knocking into a red-haired carnival worker, putting myself out of arm's reach and giving myself room to shoot if I needed to. 

Jumpy? Me? 

The woman standing behind me was tall. _Really_ tall. Closer to seven-foot than six, even without the advantage of heels. Her dress shoes had very good tread for formal wear. The outfit was also dressy but practical. Black slacks and a matching blazer that went on over a gray blouse. She stepped away from me, hands out in a pacifying gesture. The motion allowed me to get a glimpse of her sidearm and a glinting gold badge tucked securely to one hip. 

Her blonde ponytail bobbed as she took a step back. 

"Easy there, Slim. I'm not here to hurt you. Jeanette sent me to give you a few things." 

Of course she had. Jeanette could never make anything easy, could she? 

"Who are you?" I asked, resting my hand lightly on the Browning's grip. "And what are you?" 

Definitely a therianthrope. I knew that without probing too deeply. The energy felt somewhat familiar, like a scent that I'd caught once before. 

"You can't tell?" 

I squinted at her. I'd never met her, of that, I was absolutely sure. I'd remember a woman of her size. Her face was surprisingly striking, even free of makeup. Strong bone structure. Grandpa Flores would have called her guapa. Closer to handsome than pretty. 

"Wererat," I decided. "You're a wererat." 

The woman's face broke into a dazzling grin that lit her whole face. 

"Rafael said you were quick." 

"Did he send you?" 

I tried not to sound too hopeful. I'd been missing my wererat ally. The last time we'd spoken, I'd been bitching at him over the phone. I needed to invite him over so we could have a serious talk. And maybe a second date.

The woman shook her head. "No. As I said, the Master of the City sent me. I'm Claudia, the head of Miss Davenay's security detail. She wanted me to give you these."

Claudia reached down with exaggerated slowness, showing me that she was also carrying a small tote bag. She offered it to me and I peered inside cautiously. Had Jeanette used the opportunity to gift me another absurdly expensive evening gown?

No, apparently not. The clothing inside the bag was a perfect copy of Claudia's uniform, just in a smaller size. A golden badge gleamed from the top of the pile and read simply; Private Security. 

I glanced up at Claudia, a question in my eyes. She shrugged. 

"The Master believes you'll be more comfortable wearing the uniform of a guard than the dress she'd selected for you. Said it would solve your... 'girlfriend problem?'" 

I beamed down at the uniform, unable to help myself. I'd come to the Circus braced for any number of ridiculous fashion faux pas to be foisted on me. Instead, Jeanette had given me something completely practical and eliminated my worry about being labeled her significant other. No one noticed the guards hanging around a celebrity. 

"Thank you, Claudia. Is there a place I can change?" 

Claudia showed me to a backstage area where many of the Circus staff changed costumes or retouched their makeup between performances. She stood in front of me like a large, blonde door, blocking the others' view of me. I didn't think any of them were looking, but I was still grateful in any case. The clothing fit me perfectly and that bothered me. When the hell had she gotten my measurements? 

I considered myself in a mirror after securing the Browning on its holster. With the badge, I could almost have been a police detective. A shorter-than-average, very busty police detective. In a small, shameful corner of my mind, I had to admit I liked the thought.

Edward had offered me the chance at a badge. Any badge I could imagine, depending on the mission. For as long as I'd known him, Edward had been an agent of a shady government body. I didn't know which government it answered to. I barely knew how it operated except what he'd told me. I just knew that he had enough clout to butt into any investigation at any time to deal with a threat as he saw fit. I'd seen a few of his fake IDs when snooping in his truck once. Agent Robert J. Brogan with the FBI. I just bet he asked people to call him Bobby. 

ATF Agent Roman Whitfield. Federal Marshal Ted Forester. CIA Agent Connor Madden. Preston Grimes, Secret Service. Edward had been within spitting distance of the President of the United States at one point. Shooting any of the delegates in the room would have been child's play. But he'd been there for a terrorist looking to take out the highest number of heads of state possible. His organization did a lot of good. They could also be unscrupulous in the extreme. The missions were paid for by unknown buyers. They were assassins with shiny, fake badges. 

Edward was offering me unlimited power and there was a part of me that wanted it. I just had to kiss my conscience goodbye. 

I turned to let Claudia absorb the full effect. "Good enough?" 

She nodded. "It suits you." 

"Do I need to pass a fitness test or put in a resume?" 

Claudia thought over it for a moment. "Maybe later. For now, I'll just have to trust you. Rafael has nothing but good things to say and your kill count speaks for itself. I don't think Miss Davenay will be in much danger with you to look out for her." 

I shook my head with a small, humorless smile. If someone had told me a month ago that I'd be relieved to be a meat shield for the Master of the City, I'd have cold clocked them just after having a good, hearty fuck-you laugh. Right now? I was fucking ecstatic. At least I wasn't arm candy. Perspective was a hell of a thing. 

"Are you ready?" she asked. 

"As I'll ever be. Let's go." 

***

Barnett on Washington was a beautiful locale, built in the Spanish Mission style. Classic and understated. I'd been inside twice. Once with Judith, when I'd been scoping out potential venues for my wedding to Curtis, and once with Curtis' mother. That had been before the falling out, of course. There hadn't been many pictures of my mother up when Eden Davis, my prospective monster-in-law, had visited Stillwater to meet my family. She and Judith had gotten along swimmingly, which ought to have been a red flag. 

Judith had never asked, but my father had taken most of the family portraits down after he'd gotten remarried, replacing the ones with pictures of his new family. Some of the old photos had ended up in the attic, along with the rest of her things, but most of them had been clustered in my bedroom growing up. A handful of them shared space with my stuffed penguins in the apartment. Were the rest of them still in the guest room? Or had Dad shoved them in the attic too? 

Stepping into the venue now brought back those days. Things had been simpler. I'd been a girl in love, with dreams of being the preternatural Jane Goodall. Would I have been happier if Curtis had lived? Maybe. Would I be as capable? Probably not. 

And, going by the little Jeanette had told me, I may have ended up in this position anyway. She'd been biding her time, searching for the perfect opportunity to make me her human servant. Patient. So terribly, terribly patient. It scared me a little if I was being honest. What would she mold me into, now that she had me?

Jeanette walked a little ahead of us, heels tapping on the marble floor. A little ahead would be red velvet carpeting that stretched up the double staircase. A wrought-iron balcony stretched along three sides of the room. That made me nervous. It'd be easy to set up gunmen in the balcony above. Shooting fish in a barrel, as Grandma Blake would have said. Only the fact that Gaynor's men wouldn't be out to kill Dr. Hale helped me ease down. 

Bruno and Tommy wouldn't risk injuring Dr. Hale, for fear of incurring Gaynor's wrath. It was Dominga I was worried about. She was the wild card. Even Manny hadn't been able to fully explain what she was capable of. It had been twenty years since he'd seen her in action. She had to have evolved since then. 

Claudia and I weren't the only security present. There were at least three guards stationed by the stage and another two at the entrance. I'd bet they were crowd control. Dr. Hale's lectures drew the same sort of ire as Animators Inc. An animal sacrifice was required for every raising. In this case, a large cow, either a Chianina or a Belgian Blue. It was a testament to Dr. Hale's skill that she could do the raising at all. No one I knew could manage that without a human sacrifice. Not Dominga, not Matteo, or John Burke. Even I couldn't.

Professional jealousy, who me?

Even the carcass of the cow couldn't be used. Animals sacrificed in any ritual had to be cremated to erase the risk of contamination. A corpse who'd eaten ritual sacrifices in life would come back a rampaging flesh-eating zombie. I understood why PETA disliked us. It didn't change the fact the work was necessary. 

The banquet hall was at capacity. A hundred and eighty warm bodies huddled around tables, all craning to get a good look at the recently constructed stage. Historical artifacts were arrayed throughout the room, mostly possessions of the late Manfred Haller von Hallerstein, a member of the wealthy ruling oligarchy during Nuremberg's Golden Age. A single-edged sword called a dusack was displayed in the glass case nearest our table. 

Dr. Georgia Hale was a prodigy. She'd graduated high school at the tender age of fourteen and had finished her doctorate in forensic anthropology by the time she was twenty. She was Andria's age now, which meant she was two years younger than I was. She'd begun raising centuries-old corpses at the insistence of the institute she'd worked for. Gaping errors in the historical record were being corrected. It was important work. 

Claudia leaned against a pillar a few feet from us as we were seated around the table nearest the stage. Jeanette sat straight-backed and tense, eyes fixed on the woman mounting the steps to the stage. She was a little thing, maybe 4'10" or 4'11". Shorter than me, which was novel. She was slender and a little gawky, like she'd never outgrown that teenage awkwardness. She was dressed well in an emerald skirt-suit, her copper hair pulled back into a sensible braid. It didn't diminish the lingering sense of artlessness that clung to her as she sat. 

Jeanette's eyes were glued to her as the lights went down, her expression strained. Her hands had formed white claws in the material of her charcoal gray pantsuit. I wondered if I ought to feel jealous. She'd never been this fixated on me, so far as I knew.

"Are you alright?" 

She finally tore her gaze away from Dr. Hale, who'd begun to address the crowd. A man had taken the seat opposite Hale, unmistakably the deceased Manfred. He looked fantastic for a corpse of his age. A little waxy and definitely dead but he could think and speak. For his age, he was the most phenomenal zombie I'd ever seen.

"This is more difficult than I anticipated. She's...more powerful than I was led to believe."

Oh. It wasn't interest that commanded her attention. It was power. Dr. Hale _had_ to be a necromancer to capture Jeanette like this. 

"Is she trying to control you?" 

Jeanette's shiny, sculpted curls bounced when she shook her head. "Not consciously, which I find incredibly frightening. I cannot imagine what she could do to my Kiss should she do this intentionally." 

A small chill ran the length of my spine. Thank the Lord that Dr. Hale's interests were myopically focused on her work. If she'd had any ambitions to take over a city, she could. Just take hold of every vampire and roll the citizenry. Bam, instant martial law.

I slipped my hand under the table and uncurled her rigid fingers. She was cool to the touch but not icy. She'd need to feed soon. She glanced down in surprise when I clasped her hand. 

"Ma petite?" 

"You said your ties to me help you resist necromancy. Is this any better?" 

She relaxed against the handle-backed chair and nodded. "Much. Thank you, ma petite." 

"Could you just call me Blake? I'm supposed to be your security, after all." 

She offered me a tiny smile. Sweet and shy, like a girl on her first date. It was endearing and I instantly distrusted it. 

"Of course." 

I didn't release her hand, though. Maybe I needed the comfort as much as she did. We were here to foil a kidnapping attempt, after all. My gun hand was free and Jeanette wouldn't cling to me if it came to a fight. We both faced forward and watched the lecture. 

It was fascinating stuff, even if I didn't have the historical background to appreciate the finer points. A translator stood behind Manfred and relayed questions between the two. Jeanette seemed particularly engrossed by some parts of the tale. It almost made me want to ask about her personal history. I bit my tongue and stuffed my curiosity into a box. We didn't need to chat. As fascinating as it might be, it was ultimately only going to endear me to her. I didn't want that. 

A large part of my attention was focused on the wings and the balcony, even as the lecture progressed. Any shifting movement made my adrenaline spike. I glanced up often, only able to make out the shadowy forms of guards in suits. It was the same in the wings as well. Twenty minutes went by. Thirty. Forty-five. Still no Gaynor. Had I been mistaken? Had his threat been only that? 

The lights went up and there was a smattering of light applause. One man in the front actually pushed to his feet, like he'd give a standing ovation. 

And that was when I began to panic. 

The man looked good enough to pass for human. An untrained eye would gloss right over him. A bespoke suit, coiffed black hair, and an expensive Rolex. He looked every inch a rich businessman. He blended in perfectly. Ordinary people would mistake the soulless stare for boredom, the sunken, ashy cheeks for illness. 

He was a corpse, recently dead. I darted a glance up and found more faces leaning over the rail. At least six pale, dead faces stared back. Fuck. I hadn't felt them over the charge of Dr. Hale's necromancy. It was like disguising the scent of something subtle under a layer of very cloying perfume. Dominga had managed to hoodwink us. 

"Down," I hissed to Jeanette. "Under the table. Now!" 

One of the lights above the stage shattered, spraying sparks down onto Dr. Hale and her team. There were screams. 

And then it began to rain zombies.


	22. Chapter 22

Only one stage light still shone, flickering off and on so that light strobed over the assembled crowd. Shrieks and screams echoed, bouncing back to me in surround sound. All around us people were climbing to their feet, pushing, shoving, trying to get as far away from the threat as possible. 

I wanted to shout, "Get under the tables, you idiots!" but knew it wouldn't do any good. What had been a nice, if not dry, lecture had turned into a nightmare scenario pulled from a horror flick. Zombies were converging on Dr. Hale and her people, moving with quick, sure movements. All of them were new dead, which meant all the essential bits were intact, allowing them to sprint. If any of them were over a week dead, I'd eat Jeanette's clutch purse, chain strap and all. 

My initial count had been off. There were ten zombies moving through the crowd, not six. Jesus, Dominga was powerful. Even if they were new dead, she shouldn't be able to control so many at once. Six of them were cutting a swath through the crowd toward Dr. Hale. Three were making their way toward us. The last landed within spitting distance of the table. Fuck. 

"Claudia, crowd control! I've got Jeanette!" I shouted over the general din. She was a wererat, with hearing that beat mine hands down. I knew she'd heard me. Whether she'd listen was another matter entirely. 

I needed fewer innocent bystanders to stand between me and the bad guys. Gaynor's men would be around here somewhere, just waiting to smuggle Dr. Hale and I out of here. 

The zombie nearest me took a running leap, vaulting himself off a handle-backed chair with the speed and accuracy of an Olympic trainee. The dead are capable of surprising feats when not inhibited by higher brain function, I had to give them that. He landed on the table with a noisy clatter, champagne flutes, and fine china rattling off the edges and onto the floor where they burst apart in another spray of sound. It was almost immediately drowned by the fresh screams from our table mates. 

The man had been a veritable giant, 6'5" at least. Someone had tried to hide the blonde mullet underneath a black trilby, but it'd come loose in the ensuing chaos. His gray eyes stared soullessly down at me, lips pulling back from his teeth. At least two were missing, probably knocked out in a bar fight sometime during his life. I couldn't say I'd regret putting a bullet in his ugly mug. 

Before I got the chance, however, a hand clamped down with incredible strength on my shoulder. I spun, throwing an elbow into the thing's side. If it was human, it'd stumble back with a yowl of pain. If It was a zombie, the blow would mean very little to it. These weren't sophisticated dead, just bare minimum magic to keep them animate and seeking out their goal. 

Find the necromancers. 

The heavy shape behind me didn't make so much as a grunt. I twisted in its arms, though it wrenched my shoulder to do it. Behind me was another man. Shorter than Mullet McToothless, but not by much. They had the same squarish set to their jaw, the same sandy blonde hair. Brothers, probably. He was marginally more attractive than the one on the table, but that was about as much thought as I put into it before jamming my Browning beneath his chin and pulling the trigger. 

The shot was angled upward, so I was fairly sure it'd stick in the ceiling. It was the best I could do under the circumstances. At this close range, the top of the head simply burst, sending blood and viscous gray matter showering down on the surrounding tables and guests. One man simply keeled over when he accidentally caught a mouthful of zombie brains during the escape attempt. He tripped up his partner, sending her sprawling in a cascade of teal skirts and tulle. 

A snarl issued from the zombie behind me. In trying to deal with the more immediate threat, I'd exposed my back to McToothless. I turned, knowing instinctively I wouldn't be fast enough. The zombie was going to take me to the ground and bash my head into the floor until I either slumped unconscious or died. Either would suit Gaynor's purposes. He only needed one necromancer after all. 

I tried anyway. I knew instinctively that it was just my perception that made the move feel like slow-motion. Time wasn't actually sliding around me like molasses. By the time I'd turned fully, McToothless was mid-spring, arms extended, teeth bared. I raised the Browning, trying in vain to line up a shot. 

Then an ivory blur hit the zombie broadside. It flailed comically and went tumbling to the ground a few feet away. It regained its feet quickly, head shifting this way and that like a bobble-head, searching dully for the unknown attacker. The shape moved, and a nanosecond later, the zombie's neck was just a stump. There was no pulse to shoot blood out like a geyser, so it oozed slowly from the severed arteries even as the zombie fell. 

I blinked once in shock and the shape resolved itself. Jeanette stood barefoot on the marble, legs apart in a ready stance, the dusack I'd seen in the display case clutched tightly in one hand. Blood dripped from the end of the blade onto the pale marble floor. For a second that seemed longer, I just stared at her. She'd always seemed so...helpless. This woman seemed confident, eager even. 

She turned her head so I could see her profile. It was speckled crimson like she'd suddenly developed sanguine freckles. Her eyes threatened to bleed to midnight fire. 

"Assist Dr. Hale, ma petite," she said calmly. She made herself heard above the general noise of the room, the way she had once before when I'd visited her club. Neat trick, that. "I will deal with the dead here." 

"Then call Joshua to bring the car around. We need to get her out of here, fast, before Gaynor can capitalize on the chaos." 

"Agreed." 

I couldn't see where Claudia had gotten off to and felt a little guilty leaving Jeanette behind to face the two remaining zombies that had come after us. I consoled myself with the fact she was technically dead and unlikely to meet the same fate as Phillip, the last person I'd failed to save from the monsters. Tearing Jeanette's throat out probably wouldn't kill her. And that was assuming they managed to get past the expertly wielded dusack. 

I did risk one glance back and witnessed her pirouette like a demented ballerina, the blade moving in an elegant arc, sending another zombie head sailing out over the crowd to land in the punchbowl across the room. 

The crowds were thinning at last, allowing me a mostly straight shot toward the stage. Dr. Hale was being carried off by her attendants. She'd curled herself into a rigid ball, knees pressed to her chest, hands clamped tightly over her ears, her face a rictus of terror. She could have been carved from granite, she was so still. She couldn't weigh much, because the man carrying her didn't seem to have much trouble, and he was about Manny's height and slender. 

He hiked her up on one shoulder, wincing when her knees dug into his ribs. I belatedly realized he was wearing a shoulder holster and had a gun held loosely in one hand, ready to fire on an attacker. He didn't seem sure where to aim first. They were hemmed in, the stage at their backs while a crescent of zombies pressed in on them. They needed an opening.

I was happy to provide.

My shot took the center zombie out at the knees, putting it on the ground so I could more safely destroy the head. It really wouldn't do to kill Dr. Hale myself when I'd tried to ride to the rescue. The guard's eyes focused on me, grip flexing on his gun. He looked very pale under the neatly-trimmed ginger hair. He could almost have been Dr. Hale's brother. He had the same sweet face. 

I jabbed one finger to the side. "There's an emergency exit this way. My boss has a car pulling around. We need to go right the hell now. Someone's looking to kidnap Dr. Hale." 

He stared at me as if I'd started spouting Pig Latin. I sighed. I so didn't have time for this. 

"Get her out of here and watch for a tall Black man with dreads or a short Hispanic woman. They'll be working together to capture Dr. Hale. Comprende?" 

The ginger guard nodded slowly, as though he'd begun to decipher my meaning. "Georgie's in danger?" 

Georgie. Yeah, she was definitely his kid sister. 

"Yes. Go!" 

At last, he got his ass moving, stumbling in the direction I'd indicated. The zombies turned, extending in a sharp movement, like a fan being flicked open. In my periphery, I spotted a small movement. It was almost innocuous after all the shifting, shuffling, and screaming going on, but my gut told me to look. I trusted my gut and looked. 

Dominga Salvador was creeping quietly along the side of the raised dais, largely hidden by shadow. The remaining light still strobed weakly, giving the room and all the motion in it an almost movie-like quality. I caught a glimpse of her in one of those flashes of light. She was dressed like custodial staff, completely benign to the average passerby. What she toted in one hand was not. 

It was a G2 X-Caliber RDD system or, remote drug delivery system. I'd seen it used on cervid livestock. It'd be more than enough tranquilizer to take down an adult woman, especially one as compact as Dr. Hale and I. Dominga could kill one of us if she wasn't careful. 

Of course, I doubted that would matter to her. 

I managed to twist out of the way just as she fired the first dart. It went sailing past me, sticking into the shoulder of a fleeing sophisticate. She stopped dead, swayed, and then slumped to her knees, eyes unfocused. The rate of absorption really depended on where you were stuck and your constitution. She'd be down within a minute or two, no doubt. And if didn't act fast, so would I. 

Dominga was struggling with the gun, clearly never having worked it before. She hadn't been anticipating my dodge and had to struggle with it for another few seconds. It was long enough. 

I couldn't put a bullet right between her eyes. Not in front of this many witnesses. It'd lead to questions I couldn't answer. I could hurt her and disrupt her control over the dead. I turned to her and aimed, ignoring the rapidly approaching zombie.

Seconds after I squeezed the trigger Dominga's knee simply exploded outward. Bone fragments and blood sprayed everywhere, more crimson to stain the marble. The Historical Society that'd rented this place was never going to be invited again, that was for damn sure. 

Dominga's shriek carried above the rest of the noise like a siren's call. Even though it was awful, I felt compelled to listen, compelled to see, at least for an instant. The zombies nearby stuttered to a stop, bemused looks on their faces, like dogs that had heard a strange new noise as Dominga fell painfully to the floor.

It was now or never. I turned on my heel and pelted away from Dominga as fast as my legs would carry me, narrowly dodging another dart fired from the balcony above. It stuck in the centerpiece at one of the nearby tables. 

"This isn't over, Blake!" Dominga shrieked. "I'll kill you! Do you hear me, puta? I will kill you!" 

There was a table knocked sideways, blocking my entrance. I jumped at the very last moment, clearing it like a hurdle in track, landing on the concrete outside the doors with a hard smack. The impact sent tingles up my legs. 

"You'll have to catch me first, bitch," I muttered, then kicked the door shut behind me.


	23. Chapter 23

The second I was inside, Joshua had the car moving, peeling out of the parking lot in a shrill squeal of tires. The door I hadn't quite closed slammed shut from the momentum. Claudia was up front with a woman I didn't recognize, probably one of Dr. Hale's team. Georgia Hale, her brother, and a broad-shouldered black man were packed into the back with us, exceeding the car's seating limit by a large margin. 

I ended up on Jeanette's lap, clinging to her neck for dear life as panic rose to choke me. Flying down the highway at just over the legal limit without a seatbelt brought on the shakes in the way a gunfight never could. At least there was some substance to that death. Being flung through the windshield to skin myself on the pavement was a senseless way to die. I refused.

Jeanette's cool arms wound around me, sure and ready strength evident her grip. I didn't struggle to be free of her, as I might have only an hour ago. I clung to her, hiding my face in her hair so I wouldn't see the lights of passing cars zip by in my periphery. 

"I will not let you go, ma petite," she whispered fiercely. "You are safe." 

Safe in the arms of a vampire? Hah. Pinch me. This had to be a nightmare. 

Beside us, Dr. Hale had finally proceeded to go to pieces. Her long, manicured nails left gouges in the pale skin of her upper arms, blood streaming down as she continued to claw at them. She might have been doing that for a while, I just hadn't become aware until I'd manage to marshal my own screaming panic. At the same time, she was knocking her head violently into the seat in front of her, some strangled noise caught in her throat. 

"Stop her," I managed to croak. "Someone stop her. She's hurting herself." 

The ginger guard raised his head and gave me a helpless look. "It'll only make things worse. She's having a meltdown." 

"I can see that," I snapped. "But she's hurting herself. Do something." 

"You don't understand. It's literally out of her control. Normally I'd ask people to leave to let her do this in peace but..." He gestured vaguely at the car and the rest of us with a sigh. "Hard to do that in a car." 

"What's going on?" 

Anger was creeping into my tone, voice rising to a shout. Better furious than frightened. Always. 

"Keep your voice down." 

"Tell me what's going on!" 

"She has Asperger's Syndrome, Miss. The sound and the violence were too much for her. She can't take it. If you give her a little while, she'll eventually calm down. Right now, she can't stop it any more than you or I could stop breathing." 

Some of the anger went out of my sails. I'd never actually met someone on the spectrum, but I knew just enough about it to feel a little ashamed of myself. The shitshow we'd just waded through would be enough to frighten anyone. With added sensory processing issues? It must have been hell. 

"Sorry," I muttered, a little sullen. I hadn't known, hadn't meant to be a shit about it, but still...

"Where to, Miss Davenay?" Joshua asked from the front seat, voice strained. He kept darting nervous glances at us in the rearview mirror. Other than the harsh sounds of our collective breaths and Dr. Hale's whimpers, it was as silent as the grave inside the car. 

"The Circus," she directed softly, though her voice still carried. "And slow down, Joshua. If we are pulled over for speeding, I will be most displeased." 

What I could see of Joshua's face paled and he ducked his shoulders, as though being shouted down by a teacher or a parent. 

"Yes, Miss Davenay."

"Rory, if you could, please cover your sister's wounds. The scent is distracting me," Jeanette said. 

The ginger guard startled at the sound of his name, then reached into his pocket for a handkerchief, dabbing at the blood that he could reach. I wondered when Jeanette had found the time to learn the guard's name. Jeanette's arms were like steel bands around me, the lines in her neck taut, fighting the urge to go for Dr. Hale's jugular. 

I kept risking glances from behind Jeanette's carefully sculpted curls to track our progress. There was no one tailing us that I could spy. Were Dominga and Gaynor confident enough to go in without a Plan B? No, I didn't think so. There'd be another attempt soon. The question was where? I was certain that the daytime resting place of the Saint Louis Kiss would be well-fortified, easily able to protect a necromancer or two. So why wasn't anyone trying to prevent us from reaching it? 

Dr. Hale didn't emerge from her meltdown until we were a mile or two from the Circus. The traffic hadn't let up. If anything, things seemed to have gotten worse. Was there some sort of special show being held tonight? Or was Halloween the new Christmas, the hype winding up months before the actual event?

"G-god..." she choked. "Oh God. I..."

"You're safe," Jeanette said in a soothing whisper. Power thrummed through her voice, easing through the car like a warm summer breeze. Instantly comforting. She was rolling the others and for once, I was okay with that. "You are safe now." 

Dr. Hale sat up a little straighter, eyes narrowing on Jeanette. Now that I was only a few inches away I could see they were olive green, with flecks of hazel near the pupil. 

"D-don't do that. I'm not a c-child." 

It didn't shock me that she'd felt it, even when the others hadn't cottoned on. Her brother didn't seem affected either. Maybe he was an animator as well, though he didn't register to my senses. Dr. Hale's power was liable to overshadow anyone in the area. 

"Désolé," Jeanette murmured, her smile utterly insincere. Dr. Hale didn't seem to catch the lie. 

Rory helped his sister bandage her arms. The car inched forward and I kept rubbernecking, expecting Bruno to ram us at any second. 

"You're Anita Blake," Dr. Hale said after a moment. 

I turned my attention back to her, shocked to hear my name fall so easily from her lips. Yeah, I was infamous in vampire circles, but that didn't make me a household name. The police might know me as one of the primary vampire executioners for the state or the consultant for RPIT, but those were just jobs. I doubted the average joe on the street would know who I was any more than I knew who held the title of the best plumber in Missouri. 

"I am, yeah. How do you know that?" 

"I've read some of your papers. Your theorems on the vampiric and therianthropic retroviruses were promising. I never understood why you quit as an undergraduate. You could have had a masters or doctorate by now and have done a great deal of good."

I bristled at the implication that my current work _wasn't_ doing good. Jeanette's arms tightened around me, as though she expected me to launch myself a few inches to the right so I could go for Dr. Hale's eyes. My phone rang but, when I checked it, I didn't recognize the number and the tone was for general callers. I let it go to voicemail.

"What's that mean? What work did you do, Miss Blake?" Joshua asked, the tremor of uncertainty in his voice diffusing some of my anger. I gulped in one breath, then another, and waited until my voice would come out dead even before I spoke.

"I was a prospective member for the vampire and therian genome mapping project. It was in its infancy when I was an undergrad. My professor suggested I look into it. I was also going to look into a military science trajectory before I was kicked out of my ROTC program. The project is looking at the evolution of both viruses and how they've changed over time. We've found traces of both in the skeletons of Homo-Habilis, our oldest known ancestor. Their skeletons were found in Sub-Saharan Africa about 2 million to 1.5 million years ago." 

Dr. Hale bobbed her head, relaxing back into her seat. Apparently the scientific conjecture was calming her down. Bully for her. It was making me a little sad. I remembered having talks like this with some of my classmates over lunch or coffee. Curtis would sit in with us, nodding along like he understood, knowing I'd explain the gist of the conversation later. 

"Though most scientists agree both viruses likely predate even humanoid creatures. If you subscribe to Heterotrophic theory, it's been with us since the beginning, developing with the rest of us in the prebiotic broth." 

"The what?" Claudia asked. 

"Primordial ooze," I translated. "The conditions that allowed all life on the planet to evolve. Vampires and therians may be as old as time. There've been fae who've been turned into vampires. Rumor has it even a dragonwere was trapped as a vampire at some point." 

"Don't you mean a weredragon?" Joshua asked, taking the turn into the Circus' employee entrance sharply. I shifted a few inches in Jeanette's lap.

"No. The 'were' prefix literally means 'man.' A werewolf is a man who turns into a wolf." 

"So a dragonwere is a..." he trailed off, ashen face somehow managing to grow paler. 

"A dragon that can turn into a person. The theory is that furred and feathered dinosaurs were the first therians and that's how we all came about. Dinosaurs are the great-grandparent of the modern dragon. Therians can go both ways, or so the theory goes. Most are humans turning into animals. But sometimes, very rarely, you get the opposite."

"I was disappointed to learn you'd withdrawn your candidacy. You were promising. Very promising," Dr. Hale said, shaking her head. But for the scratches, you would never have known that she'd been panicking just five minutes ago.

"Yeah, you're not the first person to be disappointed in me, Dr. Hale. I doubt you'll be the last. Can we all just shut up and get inside?" 

Everyone stirred, muttering a general agreement until the shrill ring of my phone issued into the car's interior. This time I recognized the tone and wanted to toss the damn thing across the car. 

Twisted Sister's _We're Not Gonna Take It_. I'd changed Dolph's tone after our very chilly exchange at the precinct, my own little petty revenge. He was no doubt calling to chew my ass. I didn't want to answer but if I chickened out, there'd be hell to pay later. I answered the damn phone. 

"Look, " I began, defensive already. "What happened at Barnett on Washington was not my fault-" 

"Like hell it wasn't," he interrupted. "But that's not why I'm calling. We can suss out blame for that clusterfuck later, Blake. The chimera has attacked another family. It's killed the grandparents and taken the rest hostage. The mother called it in. She just arrived home from the hospital and caught the tail end of it. I hate to say it Blake, but I think your theory was dead wrong. I don't think John Burke could have done this."

"Where?" I demanded, already shifting gears. "Who's the victim?"

"It's at the home of Anne Burke. John Burke was taken with the others."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've made Dr. Hale an Aspie because LKH is notoriously bad about portraying disabilities, mental or otherwise. I am totally okay if someone wants to correct me on how she's portrayed. My husband is an Aspie, but I know it often presents very differently in girls. Not only do I want to make Anita less of a special snowflake by making her less powerful in the beginning, but I also want to show that life does not end with mental illness or disability. You can be incredibly successful and in this fictional case incredibly powerful in spite of it. 
> 
> Thanks so much for reading. :)


	24. Chapter 24

"I'm coming with you." 

Jeanette's voice glided from the darkness around me so soft, so persuasive that I almost turned on my heel to face her. Claudia, Joshua, and Rory were already herding Dr. Hale and the other members of her team into the Circus. From there they'd be blindfolded and led into the daytime resting place of the Saint Louis Kiss. No one outside Jeanette's inner circle was going to be allowed to leave able to detail the various entrances and exits. Even I hadn't seen the full monty, and I was her human servant.

I half-turned so I could see her lingering near the employee entrance. A single, incandescent bulb shone a spotlight down on her head, so there was no mistaking the look of keen desperation on her face. 

"No." 

"Ma petite I can help-" 

"No," I repeated more firmly. "You were fantastic with the sword and, back against the wall, you're not a bad person to take into a fight. But this is a crime scene, Jeanette. There will be police swarming the place trying to look for clues. None of them like or trust vampires. If I show up with you in tow, dollars to donuts, someone's going to point a finger at you. It doesn't matter that you have no motive. Someone's going to want their ass out of the fire. Easier to strike a match under yours."

Jeanette's fingers groped along the peeling side of the warehouse wall like she was seeking a handhold. 

"If you go, you will die this night," she whispered. "Both foes you face are dangerous. More dangerous than anything you have ever faced, ma petite. This is no doubt a trap. They will kill you when they have made use of you. I won't let that happen. I cannot." 

She was probably right. If Dominga had kidnapped John, she didn't need me or Dr. Hale. Given police response time, she'd likely secured Plan B before ever seeking us out. With a gris-gris and a human sacrifice, John Burke could pull a five-hundred-year-old corpse from the ground. That had probably been the motive behind Peter Burke's murder, now that my sluggish brain had finally decided to kick into high gear. Every indicator had led police to believe he'd been a victim of circumstance, but I knew better. He'd been compelled into action. By what, I didn't know, but Dominga had something on him. Now she had something on John too.

"Anne Burke has kids," I said, just as quietly. It felt like anything louder than a murmur would break the night and set us both screaming. "Serena and Arty. Their grandparents are dead. Their father was shot with a .357 Magnum, probably by the same sons of bitches that have taken them hostage. If I don't find them soon, I'll have to explain to Annie why she's a _childless_ widow."

"But you could die." 

She gave me very solid eye contact, her eyes huge in her face, so deep and dark that I fancied I could drown in them. Concern leaked off of her and saturated the air, cool and touchable even in the August heat. It'd have been nice if I hadn't known it was a lie.

"Don't pretend this is anything but self-interest, Jeanette. You're worried that if I die, you die too. You knew what I was when you marked me. Did you think you could stuff me in a box? Wrap me in cotton and hide me somewhere safe?"

Her eyes held me for a few seconds and the world around us swam past in a muffled haze. The lights seemed dimmer. I didn't think it was a mind trick, just the gravity of her eyes. They were fathomless, deep, and deadly, like the riptide that snagged your ankle and dragged you from shore. She didn't flinch, didn't cry, or stammer a response, the way I'd hoped. Stupid to hope, since she'd been learning better control than that centuries before I was ever a thought. 

When her lips moved, my eyes dipped to them, rather than continue to be pulled in by those compelling eyes. The lips and voice were almost as bad. Almost, but not quite. 

"I cannot decide if you are pigheaded, maddeningly obtuse, or simply _blind_ ," she said at last, the line of her mouth screwing into a tight line, betraying her at last. She wasn't hurt. She was pissed. Or maybe she was pissed because I'd hurt her.

"Let's go with stupid. You wouldn't be the first to call me that. Hell, Dr. Hale all but spelled out my professional missteps over the years. Go ahead, take your best shot." 

A soft, almost feline growl built in her throat. I hadn't been aware that vampires could sound like that. A trick or just one new, bizarre thing I needed to file away about her. 

"I _care_ , Anita," she seethed. "You think I would put up with your insolence, your insults, your endless antagonism if I didn't? I could push the third and fourth marks upon you this instant and bend you as easily as a paperclip! I will not do this because I would like to preserve you. I want Anita Blake, necromancer. Anita Blake, the Executioner. I want the beautiful woman who has managed to overcome so much in such a short amount of time. I do not wish to lose the woman I have spent three years learning to-" 

Jeanette cut herself off so abruptly that the last few words seemed to trip into one another. She shook her head violently, like a dog trying to shed water. 

"Learning to what?" 

"Nothing," she said softly. "Stay. Or allow me to come along." 

"No," I repeated, this time taking a step away from the door. Zerbrowski would be en route to the Circus as we spoke. I just had to wait. "Stay here and protect Dr. Hale. She's Dominga's ultimate prize. If she can absorb both of us, she'll be unstoppable. That's the favor I want from you. Keep her safe. Keep your promise, or I tell everyone who'll listen that Jeanette Davenay is an oathbreaker." 

Not a big deal to a modern vampire, where promises seldom meant anything anymore. To vampires a few centuries and older, their word of honor meant a great deal. 

"Do not die," she said, just once, voice so ragged it hurt to listen to. 

Then she turned to walk inside, leaving me in the baking summer night, waiting for Zerbrowski and agonizing over the tail end of that sentence. I had a bad feeling I knew what the last, four-letter word might be.

Pat, I _so_ didn't want to solve this puzzle.


	25. Chapter 25

Cole Murray had been seated at the dining room table when he'd died. From the waist down, Mr. Murray's body was still settled in the chair, dress shoes still planted firmly on the hardwood. His torso had been tossed out a wide set of French doors. His head was nowhere to be found, and he was still in much better shape than his wife. 

The police couldn't say for sure that the remains on the floor belonged to Betsy Murray. When everything had been cataloged at the scene, the medical examiner would compare what was left of the mandible to Betsy Murray's dental records. The pieces were even smaller than they'd been at the Reynolds home, bits no bigger than stew meat floating in the still fresh lake of blood. Trails lifted from the edges of the pool like the monster had slurped the fat gray intestines from the pile. 

It was all I could do not to gag. 

Anne Burke's hysterical voice carried in shrilly from the kitchen. This time I couldn't even blame her for going to pieces. If I'd gone home to Stillwater and found my father's body torn apart, I'd have been a mess too. And to know that her children were out there, at the mercy of the monster that had done this...God, I couldn't fathom how she was still on her feet right now. If she could be strong enough to stay conscious after what she'd found, then I was not going to be chickenshit and lose my lunch on another body. 

"You don't have to keep staring at it, Anita." 

Zerbrowski's voice was gentle, a little sad, even. It wasn't a good sign. Cops develop a chitin-like layer of defense to throw up between themselves and the horror. For some, it was a somber mask. Dolph grew quieter than ever at a crime scene, speaking only when spoken to. For Zerbrowski, it was gallows humor. That pithy, eleventh-hour mirth that only dire straights can summon in you. That he couldn't call upon it now spoke volumes about our current situation. Dawn was still many hours away. A monster was out in the dark, controlled by a madwoman. Dolph and Zerbrowski knew everything I did at the moment. It wouldn't help us find Dominga. 

"I have to," I argued, hearing and hating the note of desperation in my voice. 

"Staring at granny stew won't help us, Anita. Come into the kitchen and talk to Anne. If you take her statement, maybe something will stand out to you."

"She's been questioned what, a dozen times now? I'm not sure her nerves can stand up to another round, Zerbrowski. She hasn't even had a chance to sit down since arriving home." 

"She's not talking much and when she does talk, she asks for you." 

I'd been afraid of that. I screwed my eyes shut, trying to block out the lazy twirl of the room. The heavy, meaty smell of the bits, the semi-sweet scent that rose from the blood, and the faint smell of shit from Grandpa Murray's torn intestines were making me sick. I was _not_ passing out at this crime scene. Only Anne Burke had that right. 

Still, this was another nightmare visual to press like a poisonous flower between my mental pages. It'd resurface when I least expected it, just like Curtis' last moments, the violently red spurt of blood from Phillip's severed arteries, Benjamin Reynolds' abandoned shoes. 

Benjamin's shoes...

I cracked my eyes open again, pressing my hands flat to my thighs so I could push to my feet. With my new leather coat flapping around my knees and the private security badge hidden, the black slacks and gray blouse combo looked like something understated. Something a normal woman would wear to work. I didn't work for a normal boss. Bert didn't like his animators wearing drab colors. Too dour. Too much like a funeral procession. 

So much for respecting the dead. 

"You've thought of something," Zerbrowski said, offering me a small plastic container. Vicks. A handy little trick that a mortician had taught us both once. Carmax and Vicks erase a multitude of mystery odors. 

I shook my head. I appreciated the thought, but the smell would thin in the kitchen. It'd be mostly gone if Anne and I stepped outside to talk. 

"There's a connection to Benjamin Reynolds. He's still missing, right? No one has found the body?" 

Zerbrowski shrugged. "No one has called anything in. But we already know there's a connection, Anita. The chimera has attacked both families. Whoever is sending it is using the children as hostages."

"Then why the Reynolds family, Zerbrowski? They don't have a connection to John Burke. Why haven't we found Benjamin's body? That piece doesn't fit. I've met Dominga Salvador. She won't keep a loose end alive and crying for his parents. If he's living, it's because she's got an endgame." 

"Maybe you can ask. She's refusing to speak to anyone but you. What did you do to build up such rapport with this woman anyway?" 

I didn't want to air Anne's dirty laundry. Cops could be as misinformed about mental illness as anyone else. The stereotype that the mentally ill were like landmines, liable to go off at any second, was still thriving. Forget that they were more likely to be manipulated and abused than the average person. No. I wasn't going into detail with this many cops around. I trusted Zerbrowski, not the vanilla cops. Hell, I wasn't even sure where I stood with Dolph these days. 

"Peter Burke was an animator, just like me. It's a small club and I've met everyone's significant other at some point or another. I guess she trusts me." 

I could feel Zerbrowski's skeptical stare boring a hole into the side of my face. I didn't turn to acknowledge it. It was as close to the truth as he was getting from me. He didn't push, so I didn't tell him to fuck off. It was damn diplomatic. For me, at least. 

Uniforms parted like a navy sea as we made our way into the kitchen, revealing Anne Burke standing by her back door, clutching the door jamb like it was the only thing keeping her upright. Tremors ran the length of her slender frame. Her shrieks had quieted to sobs while I'd been pouring over what remained of her mother. She jerked away from my touch when I placed a gentle hand on her elbow, and I let the hand drop at once. Her eyes refocused and she sagged against the door frame.

"Oh, Anita. Thank God." 

She said the words fervently like I was a miracle wrapped in flesh. I wasn't sure I deserved that level of trust. I had gotten here too late to save her parents after all.

"Can we step outside, Annie?" I asked, shouldering the door open to let in a waft of warm summer air. It made my skin prickle, but Anne Burke looked like she needed a little goddamn privacy. I knew what it was like to be the victim at the epicenter of the crime. All the gawking. The whispers, the accusations, the judgment. She didn't need that shit on top of everything else.

She nodded and I wrapped a hand around her waist to support her when she half-sagged. Zerbrowski trailed behind us at a respectful distance, pretending to admire the carved birdbath in her front yard while she and I paused near a row of mailboxes. Only then did I let her go. She sagged again, using the nearest mailbox for support.

"I need to ask you a few questions, Annie. I need you to be honest when you answer. Any details you can give us will help us find the bastards who did this. Can you do that?"

She knotted her hands in the front of her pale pink blouse. The front was tear-stained, the fabric no doubt ruined. She'd tried to look presentable before she came home to her kids. God, what a fucking nightmare her life had turned into.

"I think I can." 

"What happened?" 

The shudder seemed to originate from her toes and rocked up her body like a frigid wave. 

"I had a friend drive me home from the hospital. Mamma said she'd take care of dinner and that papa would have Arty and Serena setting the table by the time I arrived home. John was coming over for the welcome home dinner too. I was happy. But when we rounded the house I saw shattered glass and blood. Ellie told me not to look, just to call the police. But I _had_ to, Miss Blake. My babies were inside that house. I had to look." 

A fresh sob tore its way out of her throat. I waited until the worst had passed to speak again. 

"And you don't have a panic room or an emergency escape route? Someplace Arty and Serena would know to go in case of an emergency?" 

It was a long shot, and I knew it. But goddamn it, it'd be nice to have a nice, easy resolution to a problem for once. 

She shook her head. "No. I looked in the crawlspace. I didn't find them there. John's car his still here. I know they took him. They took all of them. Are my babies still alive out there, somewhere?" 

She rocked forward so suddenly I almost hit her. It was reflex when someone larger than I was lunged in my direction. I managed to stay my hand and catch her as she fisted bony hands in the lapels of my coat. 

"Please, Miss Blake. Please, I need to know. The officers said this happened before. Did anyone survive?" 

"A little boy," I said softly, prying her hands loose. I held them gingerly in one of my own. Her wrists were slender enough to allow even my small hands to encircle them. "Benjamin Reynolds. He's been missing for a while now and there's no body to speak of. We're not sure why. I needed to ask you if the name was familiar at all. The chimera attacked their home as well, but we can't understand why they were targeted." 

It was like I'd flipped a switch. The difference in her bearing was apparent at once. She stood bolt upright, wrenching her hands from my grasp so she could raise them, trembling, to her mouth. Fresh tears dewed on her lashes. 

"Oh my God," she breathed. "They knew."

"They knew what?" 

"John and Peter's parents gave them up when they were young. John barely remembers his birth mom. Peter couldn't recall a thing. He wanted closure. Wanted to know the reason why. He was contacted through the 23andme relative finder. A man named Isaiah Reynolds popped as a half-brother. He'd been put up for adoption too. John didn't want anything to do with the Reynolds family but Peter visited a few times. Their Benjamin is only a few years younger than Serena, and Peter wanted to arrange a playdate. He was talking about it the day he was killed."

Was John Burke a callous enough bastard to allow a nephew he didn't know die to spite Dominga? I didn't know. And she'd made it a moot point. Now she had both nephews and his niece. It was a hell of an incentive. If my parents had lived closer, would I have gotten a ransom call? Raise the dead or else? I'd have done it for dad, Josh, or Grandma Blake in a heartbeat. Would I have marched into certain death to save Andria or Judith? God, I hoped so. 

"Are my babies going to die?" she whispered. The tears spilled down her cheeks, silver in the moonlight. 

I had no answer, no comforting words to give. I was saved by the chime of her phone. _Fur Elise_. Much classier than my ringtone selection. 

Anne reached down toward her pocket slowly, as though the action didn't quite make sense to her anymore. When she withdrew the phone and showed me the name on the screen, my breath caught. 

John Burke. 

"Answer it and hand it to me," I whispered, trying to betray nothing. Zerbrowski was a smart cookie. He'd pick up on my distress like a dog catches a scent. "Don't panic. When I'm through talking, tell Zerbrowski I got a call from Bert. Then you sneak around to the garage. We'll need to take your car."

"Why not tell the police?" 

I didn't have time to explain. Dolph and Zerbrowski would do everything in their power to keep me here. If the police got involved in Dominga's agenda, more bodies would pile up and that would be on me. They didn't know how dangerous she was. They'd treat her like a witch or a sorceress. She wasn't. She was a goddamn necromancer and the most powerful I'd met after Dr. Hale. I'd pissed her off. She'd want me personally and she wouldn't care how many people she had to slaughter to get to me.

"Answer, now."

Anne pressed the button, catching the phone on the last ring, slapping it into my palm with minimal hesitation. I lifted the phone to my ear. 

"Annie?" John asked from the other end. His voice was thick like he had cotton stuffed up his nostrils. His nose was probably broken.

"It's Anita," I said, speaking as low as I dared. "I'm with Annie now, John. I thought we'd skip the foreplay if that's alright with you. I know Dominga is listening. Tell me where this hostage exchange is going down. Send Antonio with the kids. They get out of the car, alive and unharmed, and I get in. I raise this corpse for you and everyone walks away happy, right?"

Dominga's voice filtered through the speakers, distant and carrying over a staticky breeze. I was surprised she was conscious. Being shot hurt like a motherfucker and it hadn't quite been three hours since her injury. Maybe she had powers beyond the ken of normal animators. Or maybe it was just a kickass pain medication. 

I could hear Arty and Serena in the background. Arty was trying to quiet his little sister as if by being silent they could escape notice.

"You think you are in any position to be making demands, Anita Blake? I could order Fernanda to cut little Benjamin's throat this instant," Dominga hissed.

"I know that if John could raise this corpse for you, you wouldn't be calling me. I don't understand why you won't raise it yourself, but I know that John can't. Or at least, he can't bring it back with enough brains to give you the location of the treasure you're looking for. I'll come to you willingly, Dominga. Antonio can stuff me in the trunk if he likes. You give the children back to Anne Burke and keep John as collateral." 

"You do not care for him. It is not enough. Benjamin Reynolds will stay." 

It was the best offer I was going to get, under the circumstances. Trying to save one kid would be easier than shepherding three." Deal." 

She gave me the address and warned me not to be late. I hung up. Anne was crying again. 

"Are my children alive?"

"Yes, they are. And we need to leave now if we want to keep them that way."

Anne Burke seized me around the neck and tried to choke me in her gratitude. 

"Thank you, Anita. Thank you. I won't ever forget this. I'll owe you for the rest of my life." 

I said nothing, just sidled away slowly after she released me, avoiding Zerbrowski's probing gaze. 

Here's hoping I'd live long enough to collect.


	26. Chapter 26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Torture, assault, threats of rape, and references to date rape.

Minutes scraped by painfully, like someone was gouging them out of a blackboard. We needed to be on the road by now. I'd known it would take Anne a little time to extricate herself from the police. To walk off the scene hand in hand with me was tantamount to announcing our intentions. Still, I should have learned from our talk in the diner that Anne Burke was a terrible liar. The police could be very accommodating if they wanted to keep you at a scene. Want to smoke? Half the cops I knew would lend her a cigarette and a lighter. Almost anything else could be retrieved by a low-level grunt. The more excuses she made, the higher my nerves jumped. I ended up fishing my phone out of my pocket, simply for something to do and found three missed calls. The number on the notification wasn't one I recognized. It'd left three voicemails so far. What fresh hell was this? 

Stomach pitching, I dialed my voicemail and waited. The first message was nothing but shouts and static. A misdial, maybe. The second, however, was clearer. A man's voice, vaguely familiar.

"This is Eli. Please, lady," he croaked. "You gotta help. The tall blonde bitch and her bodyguards just left with Wanda. She's bleeding bad. I think they're going to kill her. I c-can't get up. The big black one took a hammer to my knees."

"Fuck," I breathed. 

Wanda was no doubt Gaynor's pick for the human sacrifice. It took care of a loose end and shored up his partnership with Dominga in one easy move. I just prayed that John hadn't already slit her throat in an attempt to raise the corpse. I'd understand why he'd done it, it was his family at stake after all, but I'd never forgive him for doing it. Wanda's life didn't matter less than his or mine just because she was a prostitute. 

I wasn't sure how Eli had gotten my number. Maybe he'd found it through Jeanette's public records. Dolph said that my number and public information was available upon request. Ultimately, it didn't matter. Now I knew. The question was, what could I do about it?

Anne Burke rounded the corner with a huge, floral purse hiked up on one shoulder. It looked like it could have doubled as a diaper bag in a pinch. 

"I don't think Detective Zerbrowski believes me," she whispered. "What do we do?" 

"I'll get in first and slump out of sight. You give me the all-clear when the house is firmly in the rearview mirror. Then I'll give you directions to the rendezvous point. They'll be bringing Serena and Arty. When you have them in the backseat, floor it. Take them to the hospital and only then are you to call RPIT. If Dominga thinks I'm being tracked, she'll kill John and Benjamin Reynolds." 

Anne's hands trembled around the strap of her purse, eyes wide, full of the terror that eats at your mind and makes you stupid. 

"Do I need to do this myself, Anne?" I asked. 

Her eyes finally focused and she turned her chin sharply in denial. 

"I'm coming, Miss Blake," she said, and there was finally a glimmer of that steel center showing through. "Just try and stop me."

"That's what I like to hear. Now let's get going." 

***

Christy Park was a scenic little spot in the daytime. Definitely somewhere you could see a family picnicking for lunch or bringing the kiddos for a birthday party. At night? Not so much. On the few occasions, I'd passed the park at night, it was all but abandoned. Occasionally you'd catch someone sitting at the end of one of the slides, the orange glow of a cigarette dangling from the end of their fingers. 

Like right now. 

The man brought the cigarette to his mouth and sucked slowly. The lit end glowed brighter, giving me just a hint of his face. Antonio. A little behind him, almost blending in with the shadows beneath the slide, was Bruno. He had the two kids tucked under his arms like overlarge footballs. They didn't appear to be gagged and they weren't screaming. I wondered what Bruno had told them he'd do if they made noise, then decided just as quickly that I didn't want to know. 

I just had one last thing to do before I stepped out of this car. Everything on my person would be confiscated, the weapons stolen, the phone scoured for potential calls to the police. My last communique and it wasn't to family, friends, or even my bosses. I pulled up Jeanette's number and shot off a quick text. 

_Shield like a motherfucker._

Let them make of that what they would.

When I glanced up from the screen, Anne Burke's eyes were glued to her kids' pale, oval faces, foot pressing the brake flat to the floorboards. Her hands shook on the wheel. I'd told her to floor it just as soon as the kids were belted in. She could shove Serena in her kiddie seat a few blocks away when armed thugs weren't trying to end what was left of her family. 

"I need to go with you," she whispered. 

"You stay here. We agreed." 

"But-" 

I didn't let her finish the tail end of the sentence. I shoved the passenger's side door open and stepped out with my hands where Antonio could see them, shutting the door behind me with a swift kick. 

Antonio came lazily to his feet, flicking the cigarette to the side. The lit end crumbled to the ground and flickered into nothing a moment later. He blew out a slow stream of smoke as he approached me. 

"I'm here," I said, raising my voice a fraction so that Bruno could catch it from the shadows. "Dominga and I have an agreement. You let the children go, and I climb into the car. No funny stuff." 

"You think she's going to let you come to her armed, puta? I'm going to pat you down before those little brats go anywhere. The little bitch bit me." 

Good on Serena. I just hoped he hadn't broken any of her bones for it. 

I didn't like it but there wasn't much choice, was there? It wasn't as if I was helpless, even unarmed. Dominga wanted me to raise the dead? I could raise them. May the best necromancer win. 

I shed the coat. It wasn't as if it was necessary on this arid August evening anyway. I'd been packing light for the event at Barnett on Washington, even though I'd been certain there'd be some trouble. As security personnel, I could carry a sidearm but I doubted the wrist sheaths, stakes, two-inch blades, and shotgun I also carried for my job would have gone over well. I felt strangely light as Antonio stepped forward to pat me down. He found my cell phone first and pocketed it.

The Browning was confiscated immediately and stuffed into the waistband of Antonio's pants. Carrying it like that was a good way to have an accident, but I didn't particularly care if Antonio blew his dick off. I did mind it a lot when he groped both my ass and my breasts under the pretext of searching for weapons tucked into either my belt or my bra. 

"I'm unarmed," I snapped when he tweaked one nipple. It took Herculean effort not to kick him in the shins. "Let the kids go." 

Antonio pulled at the nipple a little harder, smirking when I winced. "My abuela says that I can have you when the raising is through. A little Thorazine and you'll be pliant enough. Better when a woman's awake, but I've had a few drunk women. You'll still be warm and tight enough." 

He dipped one finger into my waistband and I tasted vomit in the back of my mouth. 

"I'll die first." 

He shrugged and finally, mercifully, stepped back. 

"Perhaps. But that won't save you. She could bring you back like Fernanda. I've fucked some of the other zombies. Put them in a hot tub and they feel just like a real girl." He looked me up and down. "You'd look good in a bikini. I'll be Gaynor's first customer. Zombies have to take orders, don't they, Anita? You'll fuck me and you'll like it." 

I swallowed hard. I wanted to throw up. "We had a deal."

Antonio sighed like I was ruining all his fun. "Bruno, let the little ones go." 

Bruno detached from the shadows and strolled toward us, setting the children on their feet when he was level with me. They sprinted toward the car without a backward glance. Lucky them. I didn't relax until the doors slammed shut behind them and the tires peeled away from the curb. 

Bruno's hands shot out to grab me, just in case I planned to make a break for it now that the hostages were out of harm's way. His fingers dug into my biceps hard enough to leave marks, but I didn't resist when he guided me toward the black stretch limo parked on the opposite end of the park. They kept to the shadows where they could, doing their best not to attract the attention of any cops who might be trolling this area of town. Just a nice pair of gentlemen walking a lady home. 

_Riiight._

Antonio opened the door when we reached the limo and Bruno chucked me in like I was yesterday's gym bag. I fell sideways, my head landing on something soft. When I managed to spit out my curls, I found myself looking up at Cecily. Her golden hair was pulled out of her face this time so I couldn't easily grab hold of it. She looked almost ordinary in a pair of stained blue jeans and a dark t-shirt. Her perfect smile didn't set me at ease, especially when something sharp dug into my waist, just above the burn scar. 

"Keep most of her intact, Cecily," Antonio chided. "My abuela needs her alive and I don't fuck ugly women." 

Bruno climbed in after me, pouncing before I could fully get my legs beneath me. I wasn't sure if I would have run, but whatever Cecily was about to do, I so wasn't down for it. Antonio slammed the door shut behind Bruno and rounded the car to the driver's side. By the time the car got going, I'd been wrestled onto Bruno's lap and a pair of prison-style leg restraints had been slapped on my ankles. I squirmed and tried hard to kick when Cecily crouched over me with the knife. I cursed and spat at her when she began hacking away portions of my slacks. Everything below thigh-level was slashed to ribbons and piled on the floor. When my legs were completely bare, Cecily studied them with an artist's eye. 

I jerked when she traced the burn scars on my left leg. It was a hideous mass of blisters, pits, and shiny sections of raised flesh. It had healed like a patchwork quilt, some of my enhanced ability fading bits of skin to a light brown, while others remained shining and pink. Malcolm had told me the appearance could reduce drastically if I took all four of Jeanette's marks. I'd told him I wasn't going to trade my soul for vanity's sake. 

Bruno chuckled. "High Priestess Salvador and Mister Gaynor have given Cecily permission to skin your legs for what you did to Tommy. Mr. Burke cut his throat to raise that zombie. No use for him when his guts started going septic. But I guess that someone already beat us to the punch, huh?"

I let a breath out slowly, trying not to let the relief show plainly on my face. Wanda was alive. For now. 

Cecily dug the point into one of the shiny blisters, slitting it open with just a flick of her wrist. I bucked in Bruno's arms, bit my tongue, and tasted blood. The agony was instantaneous. And this had only been just a small cut. How long could I go without screaming? 

The answer was approximately ten blocks if I bled everything my teeth could easily reach. Cecily was happily digging at one of the large, shining patches on my thigh when we hit a pothole. It drove the knife in deeper than she'd intended, taking a chunk of meat with it when it came loose. Blood poured from the new divot, sliding through the pitted landscape of my thigh before pooling on the seat below. 

Thankfully, we weren't going far. Cecily had only reopened most of the old wounds and hadn't purposely created any new. 

Soon, we were trundling through wrought iron gates that I vaguely recognized from a raising two years prior. This cemetery was small, rarely used, and didn't require a guard. No one new had been buried here in over a century. In total there were maybe fifty corpses and no history of ghosts, ghouls, dybbuks, demons, or other nasties. 

This night was going to blow that all to hell. 

The limo crunched to a stop and Cecily withdrew her blade with a pout, looking like a kid who'd been told to stop finger painting in the middle of her masterpiece. I tasted blood with every swallow, and my legs had sent up an alarming tingling sensation. I really hoped I wasn't going into shock. 

Again. 

Cecily climbed out of the limo first, sashaying into the night, wiping the blade clean on her jeans. Just down the slope, I could see Gaynor and Dominga parked by the entrance to the first of two mausoleums the cemetery boasted. Red showed through the bandages on Dominga's knee. She was still hurt. Good. 

Not too far off stood a man who looked like he could have been Antonio's brother. Another of Dominga's many grandchildren, probably. He had a gun trained on a hunched figure. When I peered closely, I could just make out John's once handsome features through the blood and bruises. He had a small, wailing shape clutched to his chest. Benjamin Reynolds. They were both alive. Thank God. 

Bruno had to help me stand upright and almost tugged my arm from its socket when he manhandled me out of the limo. Antonio was already leaning against the car, scrolling through my phone. I'd stopped bothering with the passcode after I managed to lock myself out of the phone more than once. He was frowning at the screen. 

"What's this supposed to mean?" he asked, extending it so I could see a single text notification below the digital clock. 

_Call me oathbreaker._

My heart thumped unevenly. 

"Not a damn clue," I lied. 

Jeanette was coming and through the marks, she'd find me. 

The question was, would reinforcements arrive in time?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I promise I'm going to tone down the rapey-ness of these books. Not every villain is going to threaten to/actually rape Anita. But given his behavior in the canon, I could see it being something Antonio would do if he thought his grandmother would let him get away with it. I will try to warn people if something like that is coming. If you think a scene I haven't tagged needs a trigger warning let me know in a comment and I'll try to go back and add one.


	27. Chapter 27

Gray headstones floated above the brittle brown sea of grass, the mausoleums rising above even those like somber monoliths. Whoever was in charge of this place had been slacking. The grass was around knee-height on Cecily, which meant the bobbing bits of fescue were tickling my thighs, like feathers on fresh wounds. A slim path down the hill had been cleared to allow the wheelchairs easy passage and a square about the size of a ping-pong table had been cut short to allow Dominga and Gaynor to perch at the mausoleum entrance. 

John Burke watched us approach through streaming eyes. I paused when I reached him, though it cost me. Bruno's grip was so tight that everything below my elbow was sending up pins and needles. 

John was holding Benjamin loosely in one arm. The little boy had turned his face into the big man's neck, sobbing hard enough that what I could see of his round face glowed red. John was doing his best, making soft soothing sounds, smoothing a big hand over the boy's back. It was mottled with dried bloodstains. It looked like Tommy the bodyguard had been a gusher.

John stared up at me, eyes dull and hopeless. 

"It can't be done, Anita. I tried." His voice was a broken whisper. He sounded like a man in confession. Like I was his priest, here to give him last rites. "I killed a man and the zombie still wouldn't be called from the grave. There's something wrong with it. I don't think it's human." 

Fresh fear iced my spine, leaving me shivering despite the heat. There was a list of criteria for raising zombies and any sane animator followed it. Cannibals, psychics, animators, voodoo practitioners, witches, sorcerers, devil worshippers, murder victims, and clergy could not be raised under any circumstances. Inhuman corpses were a gray area. It depended mightily on what this corpse had been whether it could be raised safely. I now had an inkling why Dominga didn't want to perform this raising herself. Whatever was in that mausoleum could very well turn on the animator that raised it.

"What was it?" I whispered.

"Wereanimal, I think. Powerful."

Old, inhuman, and prone to rise a ravening, flesh-eating beast. Yipee. 

I leaned closer, on the pretext of giving him a quick, friendly embrace. I wasn't sure he'd hear me over Benjamin's sobs but I hissed the warning in his ear anyway. 

"I'm going to raise the cemetery. When you see an opening, run like hell. There's someone riding to our rescue." 

Bruno yanked me back like a misbehaving poodle and shook me. "What did you just say to him?" 

"She wants me to say goodbye to her family," John lied, the thickness of his voice smoothing over any hint of dishonesty. Hard to distrust a man who looked so damn pathetic. 

Still, they tried. Bruno gave me a hard shove toward the mausoleum. The leg restraints, paired with a growing sense of numbness from my fresh injuries, made balance next to impossible. I stumbled, just managed to avoid hitting Dominga's chair, and crashed painfully into the wall. The granite scraped painfully against my palms. 

"You came, even knowing I could kill you this night?" Dominga asked.

When I glanced down at her, I found her looking up through her lashes, eyes smoldering with hate. She couldn't muster enough energy to spend the fullness of her rage any other way. Her limbs were slack, eyelids sagging, the hate-filled stare a little glassy despite the intensity of the emotion. I knew the feeling. Opioids were damn good at their jobs. Right about now she just wanted to sleep. I hoped that would make it easier when the inevitable showdown came. 

Did I feel bad about fighting someone I'd crippled? Nope. Not a lick. 

"Some of us have souls," I said. 

"Pretty ideals will not save us when the Dark Mother descends. Let us see how well you cling to them when the choice is one life over many. The prostitute versus two innocents It is not so different, you know. I am laying a few White Goats on the altar to save an entire planet."

"Wanda is still an innocent," I whispered. "Tell yourself what you want. You're still an evil piece of shit." 

Dominga didn't flinch or protest. She sagged a little lower in her chair, eyes fluttering closed. She looked exhausted. 

"Antonio, remove the leg restraints. She has to walk a perfect circle with the girl's blood. If she tries anything, signal Enzo and the boy will be shot." 

I trusted Enzo's aim about as much as Dominga's. That shot would kill John too. This game was turning into an explosive chess match. I set my piece on the wrong square and the whole thing blew sky high. 

Antonio knelt with a smirk, fiddling with the leg restraints, actually pressing a kiss to my outer thigh when he was out of his grandmother's sight. The skin on the left left leg was throwing up futile numbness. The skin of my right leg was trying to crawl off. I threw a knee at him when my legs were free. He dodged with a low, anticipatory chuckle. 

"Feisty. I like that."

"Kindly die in a fire," I said, sugar-sweet with a smile. Grandma Blake would have been proud. 

"Everything you need will be inside. Mr. Burke says you don't need ointment for the senses. Curious. Do you draw upon the Mother's power to raise the dead, like Dr. Hale?" 

I'd taken the first step toward the mausoleum door. It'd been broken inward some time ago, from the looks of things. The dust had time to settle and the dank smell that usually accompanied places like this had thinned out. Dominga and Gaynor had probably placed the corpse the same day he'd asked me to raise it. If Tommy had been successful in drugging me, I'd have been in this position sooner.

"She what?" 

"Dr. Hale is remarkable in her own right, but even the best necromancers have never called anything over three centuries without a human sacrifice. Even cattle will not suffice." 

"Maybe she's special." 

"No, Anita. You know better. Her power taints you both. All she needs is a body. She will bring the end of all things. She has tried and almost succeeded five times within the last million years. When she walks upon the earth, it grows cold and barren."

I stared at her incredulously. I thought I knew what she was getting at but...that had to be impossible, right?

"The ice ages?" 

Dominga's head bobbed. She looked so goddamn tired. Every line in her face was etched with pain and determination. Shadows pooled in the creases and in the dips beneath her dark, solemn eyes. 

"That's impossible. No creature can cause global climate change. Not on its own anyway. I mean it's taken us how many years to collectively warm the planet?" 

"She is not a creature, Anita. She's far beyond that. A horror beyond imagining. A hydra spanning through time and space. I've seen her full form, you know. Only one head is turned toward us. There is life on other worlds. She walks among them too, her avatars draining planets until they crumble to sucking wells of gravity, trapping even light."

Fresh fear drove spikes of cold into my bones. What had Jeanette called her? 

_She is all-encompassing night. The blackness between stars. A sleeping horror._

Fuck.

"If Manny's right, it's in you as well. What makes you superior to either of us, huh?"

"I want nothing other than my own life if that is all I can preserve. She cannot give me that. For her to live, my soul must be subsumed."

"What if it's not enough?" I whispered, placing a hand on the archway that led into the burial chamber. "All our souls, all your power. What if that's still not enough to stop her?" 

"Then I will end myself as I ended the others. I will not give her a doorway into our world."

Dominga regarded me, zealous belief lighting her face, flashing in her eyes. It didn't make her an iota less terrifying but I could tell she believed every word she spoke. 

She pointed a bony finger toward the mausoleum interior. "Raise the dead, Anita. Tell the tiger to hand over the amulet and reveal the former body's location. If I can destroy that corpse as well, it will delay her for a time."

The orders made no fucking sense, but I didn't ask her to elaborate. I didn't intend to raise the corpse.

I stepped inside the tomb, Antonio following close behind. 

The mausoleum's interior was lit at each corner by camping lanterns. It cast harsh white light on the shambles within, casting oblong shadows across the room. The walls were lined with stone compartments, arranged one on top of the other like macabre safety deposit boxes. There was one raised casket in the center, more elaborate in the rest. The carved stone lid, grave dirt, and the former occupant had been cast aside so the casket could be filled with fresh, loamy earth. It was dirt from the original gravesite, transplanted here so the spirit of the thing wouldn't become agitated by the theft. 

I closed my eyes, let my power pour from me in a cool wave to touch the dead in the room. Most were just a little over a century, buried before embalming had become standard practice. They were rotted down to nothing but bone. The thing in the casket was older than Gaynor had let on. Closer to six hundred. It was thrumming with power, even after so long buried. It was remarkably well preserved. Mummified. 

Tommy's limp body had been dragged to one side, propped against the wall of vaults. A thick red circle had been smeared around the casket, John Burke's large handprint visible on the casket lid. Blood, to call the zombie from its grave. Some of the power was probably John's. He was damn good. If it hadn't been a wereanimal, maybe he'd have been able to raise it.

In the shadow of the casket lay Wanda. Her hair was matted with blood on the right side, a nasty gash running from her temple to her cheekbone. Someone, probably Bruno had blacked her eye and busted her lip. Most of her fingers were bent the wrong way so she couldn't drag herself out of the mausoleum easily. Tear tracks were visible on her face. Her eyes flicked up to me when I came to stand above her. Panic kindled to life and one choked sob escaped her. 

"Anita, no," she pleaded in a broken whisper. "Please no. I don't want to die." 

"I'm sorry," I said, and I meant it. I was sorry for what this night cost her. What she was going to witness. That she'd been dragged into this mess in the first place. 

She hung her head, shoulders shaking as she continued to sob. 

A machete and a copper bowl had been placed on the lip of the casket. The blade was larger than the athame I used for regular raisings. Trust Dominga to make a raising far messier than it needed to be. A smaller blade provided a steadier stream. This thing would hack a head clean off if the wielder wasn't careful. I curled my fingers around the hilt and swung it experimentally. It split the air with a soft hiss. The edge glinted in the lantern light. It'd been sharpened to a fine edge recently. Perfect. 

"Raise her head up so I can make sure of the kill," I instructed Antonio, voice as flat as I could make it. This had to be convincing. Let Gaynor believe I was what the rumors claimed. Cold-blooded, detached, as much a monster as the things I hunted. "I can't get blood everywhere if I want to draw a circle."

"No," Wanda breathed. "No, no, no. Please, no..." 

Antonio strode toward seizing a handful of Wanda's hair, tugging her head back painfully so that her neck as a graceful ivory line. Her pulse thudded thick and fast in the carotid. 

One clean slice. 

I knelt by Wanda, smoothed a hand over her soft, baby-fine hair. She whimpered a last, hopeless. "Please." 

"I'm so sorry, Wanda," I whispered. 

I lifted the blade, aimed...

And thrust it upward in one swift, savage movement, plunging the blade into Antonio's throat.


	28. Chapter 28

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: Gore and graphic violence.

Wanda sucked in one sharp, startled inhale, but she didn't scream, thankfully. I needed the few seconds advantage if I stood any chance of standing up to Dominga. She'd probably have her chimera lurking somewhere nearby. 

I withdrew the machete's blade just as quickly as I'd thrust it in. Antonio's eyes had flown open wide as if he just couldn't process this turn of events. I think I'd actually shocked him. Blood gushed out of the wound, a thick crimson stream, too hot when it splashed onto my ankles. Most of it poured onto Wanda, soaking her hair. She began to hyperventilate, but again, didn't scream. Good for her. 

His hand half-lifted to his throat, a gurgling sound all he could manage before he tipped sideways, landing on the ground with a dull thump. So much heavier than Wanda would have been. Would Dominga notice? 

My power jumped, like a cold flame doused in gasoline, the flames licking outward. Without a circle to contain the eager rush, it was free to seek out the dead. I found them. Twelve in the mausoleum, fifty in the graveyard proper. Somehow, instinctively, I knew I could raise them all. It didn't matter that many were hundreds of years old. It didn't matter that I couldn't call them from their graves by name. They would hear me. They would come. 

At my feet, Wanda shuddered, wrapping her arms tightly around herself, like she'd been caught in a gust of arctic wind. Wanda had at least a touch of psychic talent. Interesting. 

The power poured off of me, sinking into the stone, the ground, the bones above and below the soil. Anything I touched stirred. Words sprang into my head. Not my words, precisely, but I knew I had to speak them. 

"Arise from your graves all dead within the sound of my call. Arise and serve me!" 

A touch theatrical, maybe, but effective. I felt every single one of them stir, felt flesh, tendons, and skin pour onto the bare bones like paint from a bucket. Liquid at first, then solidifying so they could move. They began to batter against coffin lids, burst free, and scythe upward through the dirt. I felt it when their heads began to clear the topsoil, popping from the ground like dead daisies. 

Dominga shrieked. 

"Antonio, you pendejo! She has to raise inside the circle! Force her to put them back!" 

"Stay here until I come for you," I instructed Wanda in an undertone. 

I strode toward the archway, machete at the ready. The walls were rattling, the dead struggling with the stone. They'd be free soon enough. I paused in the doorway just long enough to take stock of the situation. Bruno had been stationed at the front of the tomb, in case I decided to be difficult. He'd whirled to face the new threat, leaving his back exposed. He'd obviously never trained for zombies. Bullets meant nothing to them. Zombies didn't feel pain. Even so, a complex zombie _could_ be tortured. The brain is a strange animal. Even though the nerve endings aren't sending pain signals, the brain still thinks they should. The zombie has a psychosomatic reaction.

I drew the machete back with all my strength and swung. It lodged in the side of Bruno's neck, coming to a quivering halt when it struck the spinal column. Not enough momentum to carry the strike all the way through, but it was enough. 

Bruno didn't even gurgle out a shocked sound when I withdrew the blade. He collapsed, rolling until he met Gaynor's left wheel. He struggled to suck two more rattling breaths before his body went limp. Dead, but I wouldn't be able to raise him until the soul drained out of him. He was useless to me. 

Dominga let out a furious cry, her power lashing at me like the crack of a whip. She hissed something in Spanish under her breath. Somewhere nearby, a mass of dead flesh began to move. The Chimera. Shit. 

Neither Gaynor or Dominga could move to stop me. I dropped to my knees by Bruno's body just in time to avoid Enzo's first shot. The bullet struck the side of the stone, ricocheting off with a few sparks and a thunderous crack of sound. My night vision had been ruined by the lanterns inside the mausoleum and I could just barely make out any of the shapes in the dark. I groped blindly for Bruno's sidearm, ducking behind the corner of the mausoleum for cover when I'd freed it from its holster. I crouched, hiding in the tall grass, feeling a bit like a lioness lying in wait.

The gun was heavy and I knew the model by feel. Grandma Blake had amassed something of an arsenal over the years and she'd taught me how to handle each weapon at least once. No such thing as too careful when your home is situated deep in the sticks and the nearest police department is at least a half-hour away. This was a .500 Linebaugh. the first successful .50-caliber revolver. It'd been invented in 1986, designed for big game like brown bears, wild hogs, and bison. It was also Edward's gun of choice for up-close fights with wereanimals. Grandma Blake had bought it after a pack of werecoyotes had begun to rustle her small herd of cattle. One cow could be worth at least $1,500, so it was a lucrative theft. Grandma Blake had ambushed the pack one night, driving them off with the Linebaugh and her trusty troll-hounds Jem, Scout, and Atticus. Dad had still been living at home at the time and witnessed the whole thing. I thought he may have exaggerated some bits, but this I firmly believed: Grandma Blake was one tough broad. 

And Bruno had thought I was dangerous enough to require a fifty-caliber. Maybe I ought to have been flattered. 

Enzo was wading through the tall grass, announcing his location with every step. I sent a quick, fervent thank you to the absentee groundskeeper, hoping the Big Man upstairs would pay it forward. The spots were clearing from my vision and I could see Enzo clearly when he stepped around the corner after me. He pressed his back against the wall, probably mimicking every action flick he'd ever seen, either forgetting or not understanding that the danger wasn't at his back. I almost felt sorry for the poor, dumb bastard. 

Almost. 

The click of the hammer was the only warning Enzo had. He waved the gun wildly in my direction, squeezing off another round. It landed fifteen feet away, spitting up a clod of dirt. He didn't have time to line up another. I squeezed the trigger, aiming upward at his center of mass. 

Enzo rocked back so hard his skull cracked against the mausoleum wall. The bullet punched a hole into him the size of a tennis ball. The force sent blood everywhere, and I thought I saw gleaming white rib bones before Enzo slid into the tall grass and out of sight. 

Dominga was screeching in Spanish, words too shrill and fast for me to parse any meaning from them. The chimera was close. The sickly-sweet scent of putrefaction carried on the air, so potent my eyes almost crossed. 

My left leg was shaking so badly I could barely support my own weight. My wrists were throbbing dully from the force of the Linebaugh's recoil. Adrenaline insulated me from the pain, but it couldn't last forever. This had to end soon, or John, Benjamin, and Wanda were going to die. 

"Attack the chimera."

I directed the order at the zombies. It didn't matter that I wasn't in hearing range. I was their master. They would follow my orders without question. 

The chimera was very close now. I pelted back toward the rows of graves, trying to put a barricade between myself and what I knew was coming. I made it almost six feet before my leg gave out. I fell forward and hit the baked earth face first, performing a spectacular belly flop. It drove the air out of me. 

And then the chimera was looming over me, it's fetid smell strong enough to taste at the back of my tongue. 

They'd done their best to make it look human, shoving it into a large black hoodie. It couldn't quite disguise the stooped shoulders. The jeans couldn't conceal the awkward bend of the legs. A goat's legs, good for jumping and scaling rough terrain. The short legs looked out of place with the long, human torso that I could sense beneath the clothing. One breast hung limp, like a punctured balloon, the other torn off. The arms were human too, but the hands had been replaced with something large, furry, and clawed. A bear's paws, maybe. I couldn't see the face in the shadowy hood, just make out the shape of bull horns trying to pierce the cotton of the hoodie. 

It lunged for me, slashing a clawed hand down toward my throat, and was knocked sideways by a large shape. For the second time in an evening, someone was riding to my rescue. For a few seconds, I held onto the absurd hope that Jeanette had somehow found me and was about to hack the thing apart with a dusack. When the shape resolved itself, however, I saw a young blonde man, instead of the brunette vampire I'd been hoping for. He was pale in the moonlight, with waxy cheeks, and hollow eyes. The tattered remains of a Union uniform hung off his slender frame. He'd probably been eighteen or nineteen when he'd been killed. 

The soldier tore at the hoodie like a man possessed, rending the fabric until he could reach skin. His fingers sank into the slimy, half-rotted flesh of the chimera, scooping out chunks like an undead melon baller. Rapid, crunching footsteps told me more zombies were wading toward my position, swarming the chimera. Good. That left Dominga, Cecily, and Gaynor to deal with. I still had four shots left in the Linebaugh. One more than I needed. 

I crawled on my belly, grateful the ground was relatively solid. I couldn't imagine what sort of bacterial infection I might have gotten if the fresh wounds were slathered in mud. The chigger bites I was bound to get from this little excursion were bad enough. 

The chimera didn't scream when it was ripped apart by the horde of zombies. It bellowed once in challenge before a woman in her Sunday best tore off the lower half of its jaw. 

John Burke was nowhere in sight when I crawled around the side of the mausoleum. He must have taken advantage of the chaos and run with Benjamin. Good for him. I hoped they could find a Good Samaritan to drive them to the hospital. Gaynor and Cecily were also gone, probably sensing that this little venture wasn't going their way. Fresh lines had been carved up the narrow path to the top of the slope. The limo was gone, stranding Dominga in the graveyard with me. Fairweather fiends, both of them. 

Dominga was on her feet, using the mausoleum for support. I crawled to the edge of a weeping angel before attempting to stand as well, keeping all my weight on the uninjured leg, leaning my back against the granite statue. What adversaries we made. Both too hurt to stand on our own two feet. The zombies were tromping their way noisily back. 

Dominga held a gun loosely in one hand. She'd probably taken it from Antonio's corpse. She must have ducked inside while the chimera attacked. Rage bubbled through my veins. It was _my_ gun. The Browning shook as she got a firmer grip on it. She raised it but didn't fire. I wonder if she even knew how to flick the safety off. 

"Fool," she whispered. "You fool. Do you know what you're doing? You cannot raise legions of undead. She-" 

The shambling horde of zombies rounded the corner and stopped shy of us, swaying like grass in an unseen breeze. There was something... _wrong_ with them. I couldn't put my finger on it at first. Not until I looked into their eyes. 

Where baby blues or big, doe-eyed browns ought to have been, there were only wells of inky darkness, like two sucking black holes in their faces. Light flickered unsettlingly over their features, the darkened planes flickering like flame-cast shadows. But there was no fire, no light but the moon to cast shadows, and they faced us, not the slanting silver light. 

And, almost in unison, each of their lips began to move. A voice, the same whispery, female voice, issued from their mouths, overlapping like a sleepy symphony. It was like the resigned sigh of a sleeper about to wake. The sound carried to me on the wind. One word. 

"Annnniiiitttttaaa..."

I tried to say something, but terror clenched my throat tight, froze the breath in my lungs to icy shards. My stomach tried to drop into my toes. Oh God. I raised my hand, felt the blocky contours of Curtis' cross hanging just above the swells of my breasts. Could faith repel this thing? Was it even truly a vampire? 

"No!" Dominga wailed. "No!"

Every head turned toward Dominga, shrunken and shaking against the mausoleum. The shadowy eyes narrowed and power saturated the air, so immense it drove me down to my knees again. I was drowning in cold. There was no air to breathe, just jagged shards of ice. 

Then the zombies started forward. 

Dominga still somehow found the air to scream as the zombies closed in, tearing her to pieces. Skin parted with a sound like tearing cloth. Meaty pops filled the air as the dead seized each limb one by one and literally drew and quartered her. I closed my eyes, tried to block out each agonized shriek, grateful when Dominga's cries died off. 

"Return to your graves," I gasped. Fruitless. All I managed to do was draw their attention to me. 

They stood very still, their ratty funeral clothes soaked in fresh crimson. They looked exactly as early zombie movies depicted them. A bloodthirsty horde, out to slaughter innocents. The leader, the young man in the Union uniform, pointed a slender finger at me. 

"Miiiiinnnne," the female voice crooned. 

Something impacted the ground at my side so swiftly and unexpectedly that I actually gave a breathless little squeal. Then the figure straightened, pale, slender, and leggy. I recognized it at once, and the terror lessened. By one or two degrees, mind you. But it lessened. 

Jeanette had changed into slim-fit blue jeans and a red camisole, throwing her hair into a tail at the base of her neck. It was the most casual I'd ever seen her. The tennis shoes were even practical. If she were girl-next-door pretty, I wouldn't have been able to pick her up out of a lineup. 

Her bird-like shoulder blades showed prominently, her muscles just as tense as mine. She'd retrieved the machete I'd dropped sometime during the chimera attack.

"No," she said, voice steady, despite the tremor in her hands. "She is _mine_." 

Jeanette extended her free hand to me and I took it. The instant my skin touched hers, my animating ability flared again. Gasoline on a flame. We made each other more powerful. I stood there holding hands with a vampire in a graveyard, staring down possessed zombies. It sounded like the setup to a joke, not my terrifying reality.

I pushed my power forward, slipping the shadows off like lifting a bridal veil, leaving them mundane zombies. The unseen force didn't have a tight hold of them. Not enough to overcome a master vampire and her necromancer servant. Not yet, anyway. 

"Return to your graves," I repeated.

This time, the dead heard and obeyed. Slowly, one by one, they returned to their graves, laying atop the dirt before sinking down like they'd been swallowed in quicksand. 

Then pain and fatigue hit me like a Louisville to the back of the skull. My knees buckled, my vision pulsing black. 

I was unconscious before I hit the ground.


	29. Chapter 29

I woke swathed in silk, my head turned into a soft, sweetly scented neck. Slender fingers stroked over my hair, the motion tender, like lovers who are memorizing the feel of each other after a long absence. 

"Good evening, ma petite," Jeanette's voice crooned into my ear. 

A shiver of involuntary pleasure raced up my spine, arching my body into hers, just a little. How the hell did she do that without using vampire wiles? 

I didn't wriggle out of her grasp. Seemed a little ungrateful, after she'd risked everything to ride to my rescue. Besides, it'd probably hurt like hell if she fought to keep hold of me. 

"How'd you know I was awake?" 

"Your heartbeat and breathing, ma petite." 

Right. Vampire. So much fun to hang around with creatures who could smell, hear, and taste what's going on inside your body. 

"Where are we?" 

"Beneath the Circus, in my private quarters. I would have taken you home but..." 

"I haven't issued you an invitation." 

Precisely so I wouldn't wake up like this. Still, I couldn't deny it was comfortable. The smooth slide of silk across my injured legs should have set them aching but it just felt...nice. The room was warm and lit by a single candelabra on the nightstand. I could make out only the broad strokes of the decor. An armoire, a closet, a few area rugs, a bookshelf, and the bed. The bed was huge and could probably accommodate six easily. Eight if you were small or very determined. 

"What happened? After..." 

After I'd passed out again. Goddamnit, why was I always doing that around her? I was beginning to feel like a fainting goat. 

"The dead returned to their graves. Claudia, Bobby Lee, and more of my security detail helped to...tie up loose ends, as things were. You will be relieved to know that Miss Conoley, her bodyguard, Mr. Burke, and Benjamin Reynolds are being treated for their injuries. Aside from a few bruises, Serena and Arty Burke were unharmed."

I relaxed even further into the silk sheets. Everyone had gotten out alive. Thank God. 

"Gaynor and Cecily?" 

"Will be dealt with in due time." 

I shivered, despite the cozy arrangement. That sounded ominous. 

"Dominga?" 

"There wasn't much left. As I said, my people took care of the incidental leftovers. When the bodies have sufficiently decomposed in lye, they will be disposed of."

"You've done this before." 

I felt rather than saw her smile. "Perhaps."

It shouldn't have been a comforting thought, but it was. For once, the monster was on my side. 

"How long have I been asleep?" 

"It was just after three. It is now evening. So...not quite a full day." 

"Shit," I groaned. "Dolph and the others have to be frantic." 

"Your story has been smoothed out already. After you were secure, I had a conversation with John Burke and the others. Your stories will match." 

I finally leaned back enough to look at her face. It was bare of makeup, her hair tousled in that, I've-just-fucked way. Jeanette was wearing a black silk nightie that contrasted with the scarlet sheets. She seemed to glow faintly alabaster. She smirked when she saw my expression.

"Tell me you didn't roll anyone," I said with a scowl. 

"Non, ma petite. It was only your courage and determination that saved innocent lives. They were happy to lie for you without coercion." 

I frowned. I didn't like this. I'd always thought of myself as a fairly honest person. Since I'd met her, I'd found myself embroiled in a world of blood and deceit. I just couldn't see a way back to the relatively simple life I'd led before. 

"So what's my story?" 

"You were contacted by Dominga Salvador, who negotiated a hostage exchange with you. You raised a zombie using a Belgian Blue and successfully retrieved the hostages. You were injured by Gaynor's men on the way over and passed out due to blood loss. As my servant, I felt your distress and, of course, rushed to help you."

"One problem. There wasn't a cow at the scene." 

She gave me a wide, glittering smile. "There was when the police arrived."

I rolled my eyes. "Of course there was." 

I sobered almost at once. This situation wasn't a joke. So much could still go wrong. If the stories matched up too closely, Dolph and Zerbrowski would suspect foul play. No witness testimony was a hundred percent reliable. 

"Why did you come for me? I told you to stay." 

"And stand by while you were killed? I could not do that." 

"I was doing just fine on my own until..." 

Jeanette went very still beneath my touch. "Marmee Noir. She stirs. And she seems intent on you."

"How could you face her down without screaming?" I whispered. "I could barely breathe. It was the most unsettling shit I'd ever seen in my life and that is really saying something." 

"Because I could not let her have you, ma petite." 

"Because I belong to you?" I put heavy scorn into the words. If I'd been in better shape in the graveyard, I'd have called her on it then. 

"Non. Because you belong to yourself and you are too precious to lose. When you cannot stand, I will pick you up. When you are hurting, I will take the pain. When you downtrodden, I want to bring you joy. We are partners, are we not?"

When she leaned down and brushed her lips over mine, it felt like the most natural thing in the world. Her soft lips molded to mine when I didn't push her away, her arms winding around my waist. Our legs tangled together so that we touched in one long line. My hands found my way into her loose, dark curtain of hair. I tugged her to me. 

We stayed like that for a while, in one of those moments that seemed to stretch a small eternity. A blissful moment out of time. I was warm, safe, and content. 

It was almost jarring when the moment broke. My lips tingled when she pulled back, my body colder when she wasn't touching me. My scrambled mind took a second to compose a reply. 

"Yes," I breathed. "We're partners. For now."


	30. Chapter 30

"I'm building a case against Manny."

Ronnie set her coffee cup down like a soft punctuation to the sentence. The mug was still lightly steaming, even though she'd poured it a few minutes ago. I'd wondered if it would go cold before she'd speak to me. 

That'd been irritating. She'd been the one to invite me out after all. Dinner at Denny's. She'd gotten the flapjacks. I'd gone for a breakfast skillet. Aside from a curt greeting, she'd said nothing. She'd barely even looked at me until the food arrived. So I actually jerked a little in my seat at the matter-of-fact statement.

"What?" 

"I said, I'm building a case against Manny. It's going to be difficult and it probably won't stick, but I'm going to do it anyway. I thought you ought to know." 

I stared at her and she stared back, serious as a heart attack. I was waiting for the "gotcha" moment, any hint that she was pulling my leg. 

"You can't." 

Her grip flexed on the base of the mug. "I can and I am. Those girls deserve justice, Anita. Someone needs to at least try." 

"This is so far out of your wheelhouse it's not even funny, Ronnie. We're not even talking different states here. You're going to try to find eight missing persons or murder cases in Central American countries with no idea where to start." 

Her lips pursed, forming a white line. She wanted to shout at me. I could see that in her eyes. 

"You're probably right. But I wanted you to know, so you could make an informed choice." 

"About what?" 

"Whether you want to stay friends. I won't do this behind your back. If never want to see me again, I get it. But if we hang out together outside of work, you're just going to have to leave it be, Anita. It is what it is and I won't change my mind. Can you deal?" 

I stared into my barely touched glass of iced tea. I'd been trying alternate sources of caffeine but nothing was quite as good as coffee. It was a pain to prepare it iced at home. Tea wasn't for me, it seemed. It looked and tasted like dirt. I watched a bead of condensation slowly wind its way to the tabletop before I had an answer. 

"I can deal." 

If this was her white whale, so be it. I didn't believe she would actually find anything. And if she did...well, Manny was a big boy. I couldn't protect him from his past. 

Ronnie nodded. We ate in silence. When the check came, she paid quickly, and took off, leaving me to stare at the leftover sauce on my plate. I might have stayed that way for a while, staring moodily at my plate until the waiter came to politely ask me to leave. 

Instead, my phone rang. When I checked the display, I saw Catherine's round-cheeked, megawatt grin staring back at me. I let out a breath before answering. I'd been dreading this call for days. I just bet that Mrs. Cassidy was refusing to work with us ever again. I'd heard Elise had given her hell, threatening a discrimination lawsuit. 

"Catherine, I can explain-" I began. 

"Oh my God, Anita," she gushed, breathless into the phone. "How did you do it?" 

I frowned, flummoxed. "Do what?" 

"These dresses! They're...oh my God, they're so beautiful I could almost cry. I was considering one for my gown but to get a replacement for mine. It's even the style I was looking at. I didn't know you'd paid attention during the fitting. I only mentioned the Belle Morte piece once! And you managed to get all the other bridesmaids on short notice...how?" 

I bit back a groan. It looked like my vampire stalker was at it again. Who had she paid to lurk in the bridal shops to eavesdrop? 

"I sort of earned myself a favor. Do they fit everyone?" 

"They're perfect! Oh my God, Anita! I will owe you for the rest of time! Any case you need me to do, pro bono, I swear. Monica's swearing she'll at least do half-price." 

Sweet, sweet serendipity. At least Manny would have a recourse if it came to that.

"I might take you up on that." 

Catherine kept up an effusive stream of praise, only stopping when I claimed to have another call on the line. 

I pulled up my contacts list and sent off a quick message. 

_Were the dresses another favor?_

Almost immediately dots began to dance across the screen. 

_Oui, ma petite. One kiss for one favor owed, was that not the agreement?_

_You gifted Catherine five dresses. Does that mean I owe you four more kisses?_

A brief pause. 

_That is your choice, ma petite._

I stared at the message, frowning when nothing more came through. 

Now that the fuck was I supposed to do with that?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's the end! I'm probably going to take a little break before I start re-write number three, Cirque du Sang. Thanks so much for reading this. :)


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